Practice As Research

PRACTICE AS RESEARCH
APPROACHES TO
CREATIVE ARTS ENQUIRY
Edited by
Estelle Barrett and Barbara Bolt

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Copyright © Estelle Barrett & Barbara Bolt
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From camera-ready copy edited and supplied by the editors
CONTENTS
List of Illustrations vii

Acknowledgements ix
Foreward xi
Introduction Estelle Barrett 1
Chapter 1 Interest: The Ethics of Invention Paul Carter 15
Chapter 2 The Magic is in Handling Barbara Bolt 27
Chapter 3 History Documents, Arts Reveals: Creative

Writing as Research Gaylene Perry 35
Chapter 4 Cutting Choreography: Back and Forth Between

12 Stages and 27 Seconds Dianne Reid 47
Chapter 5 “Silent” Speech Annette Iggulden 65
Chapter 6 Chamber : Experiencing Masculine Identity

Through Dance Improvisation Shaun McLeod 81
Chapter 7 Rhizome/MyZone: A Case Study in Studio–based

Dance Research Kim Vincs 99
vi CONTENTS
Chapter 8 A Correspondence Between Practices Stephen Goddard 113
Chapter 9 Creating New Stories For Praxis: Navigations,

Narrations, Neonarratives Robyn Stewart 123
Chapter 10 Foucault’s ‘What is An Author’: Towards a Critical

Discourse of Practice as Research Estelle Barrett 135
Chapter 11 Rupture and Recognition: Identifying The Performative

Research Paradigm Brad Haseman 147
Chapter 12 The Exegesis as Meme Estelle Barrett 159
Notes 165
References 169
Contributors 181
Appendix 185
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
1. Barbara Bolt, Drawings of Grant, eyeballed and living projection, 2005. 28
2. Barbara Bolt, Kalgoorlie Landscape, oil on ply, 1992. 32
3. Annette Iggulden, from the series Psalmody: ‘Why—do they shut Me out of
Heaven? Did I sing—too loud?’ (after Emily Dickinson, 1861) metallic ink & acrylic
on canvas, 2000 (detail). 71
4. Annette Iggulden, from the series Enunciation: ‘A Feather on the Breath …’

(after Hildegard of Bingen, 1098 - 1179) metallic ink & acrylic on canvas, 2001. 75
5. Steven Goddard, Photograph as a Postcard, courtesy the Goldman Family, 1934. 115
6. Steven Goddard, Photograph as a Postcard, courtesy the Goldman Family, 1934. 115
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
We would like to thank the contributors who kept the faith throughout the process
of bringing this book to fruition. Thanks also to Susan Lawson at I.B.Tauris for her
encouragement and advice and to Nicola Denny who managed the project in the
final stages of production. Our gratitude goes to Mark Rashleigh for his patience
and tireless attention to detail in the design and typesetting of this book. We would
also like to acknowledge the assistance of the Faculty of Arts at Deakin University
for supporting this publication through its Outside Study Programme. Publication
of this work was assisted by a research grant from the University of Melbourne.
Melbourne
October 2006
FOREWORD
This study emerges from critical engagement and reflection on studio-based research
by artists and other researchers in the field, across several creative arts disciplines. It
poses the following questions: What knowledge can studio based enquiry reveal that
may not be revealed by other modes of enquiry? What implication does artistic re-
search have for extending our understandings of the role of practice-based enquiry
and multiple intelligences in the production of knowledge? How can the outcomes
and broader applications of artistic research enhance understandings of practice as
research beyond the discipline?
The elaboration of the methodologies, contexts and outcomes of artistic research
presented here, is aimed at promoting a wider understanding of the value of practice
as research. Contributors have focused largely on the processes rather than the prod-
ucts of enquiry. They have also emphasised the dialogic relationship between the
exegesis or research paper and studio practice in their respective arts disciplines—
design, creative writing, dance, film and painting—demonstrating that practice as
research not only produces knowledge that may be applied in multiple contexts, but
also has the capacity to promote a more profound understanding of how knowl-
edge is revealed, acquired and expressed. Successful research projects are examined
as “case studies” in order to explore the knowledge and other outcomes of stu-
dio-based enquiry and assess how creative arts research methodologies may lead to
more critical and innovative pedagogies in research training. The aim of this book
is to contribute to such pedagogies, to provide artists with models and approaches
for staging and conducting creative arts research and to situate studio enquiry more
firmly within the broader knowledge and cultural arena.
Estelle Barrett
INTRODUCTION
Estelle Barrett
Art as the Production of Knowledge

This study is the outcome of extensive reflection on the training and practice of
studio-based research in university Creative Arts programmes. It is aimed at extend-
ing understandings of the processes and methodologies of artistic research as the
production of knowledge and assessing the potential impact of such research within
the discipline and the broader cultural arena. The emergence of the discipline of
practice-led research highlights the crucial interrelationship that exists between the-
ory and practice and the relevance of theoretical and philosophical paradigms for the
contemporary arts practitioner. This book also aims to reveal and identify additional
criteria for assessing quality research in the field. In the final chapter of this study,
I discuss Richard Dawkins’ concept of the meme as a useful way of understanding
the importance of replication as a measure of what constitutes robust and successful
research. We propose that artistic practice be viewed as the production of knowl-
edge or philosophy in action. Drawing on materialist perspectives, including Martin
Heidegger’s notion of “handlability”, our exploration of artistic research demon-
strates that knowledge is derived from doing and from the senses. We demonstrate
further, that practice-led research is a new species of research, generative enquiry
that draws on subjective, interdisciplinary and emergent methodologies that have the
potential to extend the frontiers of research.
Many of the contributions to this study, constitute a third order replication of
completed creative arts research projects emerging from reflection on both the stu-
dio practices and the written accounts (exegeses) of successful research projects by
the artists/researchers themselves in response to the question: “What new knowl-
edge/understandings did the studio enquiry and methodology generate that may
not have been revealed through other research approaches?” The research projects
to be considered cover several creative arts disciplines: Design, Creative Writing,
Dance, Film/Video, Painting and Theatre. In addition, a number of chapters ex-
amine philosophical and conceptual frameworks that are specific to creative arts
research as a discipline and also situate art practice as the production of knowledge
within broader theoretical and research paradigms. Included at the end of this vol-
ume, is an Appendix to assist practitioner-researchers in the staging, designing and
2 PRACTICE AS RESEARCH
writing up of their practice as research projects. This section outlines the approach
to research training that underpins the pedagogy from which many of the case stud-
ies presented here have emerged.
Despite some recognition of output of creative arts research in terms of the de-
velopment of national criteria and the establishment of other equivalences related
to funding and higher degree by research examinations, it continues to be relatively
difficult for artistic research projects to gain national research grant funding. There
has also been little recognition, endorsement and validation of the processes and
outcomes of studio-based enquiry as scholarly activity and research alongside other
disciplines in the University. Problems arise in comparative evaluation because art-
ists themselves have tended to be somewhat suspicious of theory and reticent in
discussing their work. Moreover, creative arts research methodologies and outcomes
are sometimes difficult to understand and quantify in terms of traditional scholar-
ship. Indeed, what may be argued constitute the very strength of such research—its
personally situated, interdisciplinary and diverse and emergent approaches—often
contradict what is expected of research. This results in a continued devaluing of
studio-based enquiry and research activities in relation to the more familiar practices
of other disciplines.
A growing recognition of the philosophical and knowledge-producing role of the
creative arts in contemporary society needs to be extended both within and beyond
the discipline. In order to achieve this, the implication of creative arts practice in the
production of knowledge and as a mode of knowledge production is an aspect that
I believe, can be more clearly elaborated in arts education and research training and
applied more generally in pedagogical approaches in other disciplines at all levels of
the university. A review of the methods and outcomes of the research projects to be
discussed indicates that the situated and personally motivated nature of knowledge
acquisition through such approaches presents an alternative to traditional academic
pedagogies that emphasise more passive modes of learning. The innovative and criti-
cal potential of practice-based research lies in its capacity to generate personally situ-
ated knowledge and new ways of modelling and externalising such knowledge while
at the same time, revealing philosophical, social and cultural contexts for the critical
intervention and application of knowledge outcomes.
A sharper articulation of a number of aspects of research in the creative arts
may also help to establish studio-based enquiry more firmly within the broader field
of research and scholarly activity. These include: the relevance that practice-based
research has for extending and articulating our capacity to discover new ways of
modelling consciousness and designing alternative methods of research capable of
generating economic, cultural and social capital; the implication that creative arts
research has for extending our understandings of the role of experiential, prob-
lem-based learning and multiple intelligences in the production of knowledge; the
potential of studio-based research to demonstrate how knowledge is revealed and
how we come to acquire knowledge; the ways in which creative arts research out-
comes may be applied to develop more generative research pedagogies and meth-
odologies beyond the discipline itself. It seems appropriate that these themes be
INTRODUCTION 3
addressed through an evaluation and analysis of successfully completed creative arts

projects—not only of the outcomes of these projects, but also the processes and
methodologies through which the outcomes were produced.
Experiential Learning and Knowledge

Philosophies elaborating the relationship between art and knowledge, and in par-
ticular, between research, practice and alternative modes of logic and knowing also
pertain to pedagogical approaches variously understood as experiential, action or
problem-based learning. Moreover, methods adopted in studio-based research often
correspond with the aforementioned approaches to learning and hence, may have
specific application for the refinement and extension of such pedagogies. Articula-
tion of these connections should provide clearer frameworks for research and re-
search training in the field of creative arts.
Because the approaches of studio enquiry often contradict what is generally ex-
pected of research and are not sufficiently fore-grounded or elaborated by artis-
tic researchers themselves, the impact of practice as research is still to be been fully
understood and realised. It can be argued that the generative capacity of creative
arts research is derived from the alternative approaches it employs—those subjective,
emergent and interdisciplinary approaches—that continue to be viewed less favourably
by research funding assessors and others still to be convinced of the innovative and
critical potential of artistic research. That studio production as research is predicated
on an alternative logic of practice often resulting in the generation of new ways of
modelling meaning, knowledge and social relations is still a relatively foreign idea
within in the wider university research community. Rather than attempting to con-
tort aims, objectives and outcomes to satisfy criteria set for more established models
of research, I believe there is a need to generate appropriate discourses to convince
assessors and policy-makers that within the context of studio-based research, in-
novation is derived from methods that cannot always be pre-determined, and “out-
comes” of artistic research are necessarily unpredictable. Facilitating meta-research
and publication of discourses that demonstrate how the dynamics of the circulation
and consumption of the art product outstrip the logic of economic exchange and
conventional understandings of what constitutes cultural capital is also an ongoing
concern of creative arts researchers. Publication of such discourses will contribute
to a greater understanding of the philosophical dimension of artistic practice and its
ineluctable relationship with philosophical and theoretical paradigms.
Because of the complex experimental, material and social processes through
which artistic production occurs and is subsequently taken up, it is not always be
possible to quantify outcomes of studio production. Louise Johnson (2004) sug-
gests that there is a need to re-conceptualise and expand notions of cultural capital
in order to more fully appreciate the value and impact of the arts. Drawing on the
work of Pierre Bourdieu and Anne De Bruin, Johnson provides a framework for
more closely aligning contexts of production, consumption and scholarly research
in the creative arts. She suggests that greater emphasis on such affinities in the dis-
courses of artistic research and in research training may lead to the development of
additional qualitative criteria for measuring the value of creative arts research and for
understanding its approaches and methods. Johnson’s elaboration of the notion of
“embodied cultural capital” is specifically relevant to my argument concerning the
innovative and generative potential of artistic research methodologies.
Situated Knowledge: The Subjective and the Personal in Creative Arts Research
Within the field of science, there is a growing recognition that restricting enquiry to
those things that can be exactly measured would mean denying many of the benefits
of alternative modes of enquiry (Eisener 1997). Since creative arts research is often
motivated by emotional, personal and subjective concerns, it operates not only on
the basis of explicit and exact knowledge, but also on that of tacit knowledge. An
innovative dimension of this subjective approach to research lies in its capacity to
bring into view, particularities that reflect new social and other realities either mar-
ginalised or not yet recognised in established social practices and discourses. Pierre
Bourdieu argues that tacit knowledge and the alternative logic of practice underpins
all discovery; and yet the operation of this logic is often overlooked because it is
subsumed into the rational logic of discursive accounts of artistic production (Bar-
rett 2003).
Though not explicit, ineffable or tacit knowledge is always implicated in human
activity and learning (Polanyi 1969). It refers to embodied knowledge or “skill” de-
veloped and applied in practice and apprehended intuitively—a process that is read-
ily understood by artistic researchers who recognise that the opposition between ex-
plicit and tacit knowledge is a false one (Bolt 2004). This notion of intuitive knowl-
edge is closely related to what Bourdieu has theorised as the logic of practice or of
being in-the-game where strategies are not pre-determined, but emerge and operate
according to specific demands of action and movement in time (Bourdieu 1990).
Bourdieu’s theory of practice suggests that culture and material relations that make
up our objective reality can only be grasped through the activity of human agents
(Bourdieu 1977). The acquisition of knowledge may thus be understood as a cogni-
tive operation or “sense activity” involving relations between individual subjectivities
and objective phenomena which include mental phenomena—knowledge and ideas
(Grenfell and James 1998: 13). Bourdieu contends that because knowledge of the
condition of production comes after the fact and occurs in the domain of rational
communication, the finished product, the opus operatum, conceals the modus operandi
(Bourdieu 1993: 158). In his explanation of how the alternative logic and processes
of practice are subsumed into rational analysis of the product and are thus often
forgotten, Bourdieu exposes the basis upon which the ongoing privileging of posi-
tivistic and instrumentalist approaches to research persists.
In moving beyond traditional objective/subjective, empirical/hermeneutic bina-
ries that have tended to separate the arts and humanities from the sciences, Bourdieu
examines the relational aspect of knowledge and the way in which different para-
digms of research imply underlying assumptions about the character of knowledge.
Positivistic or empirical approaches emphasise universal laws, whilst hermeneutics
acknowledges individual understanding, subjective interpretation and a plurality of
INTRODUCTION 5
views. Both approaches and categories of knowledge have their place and co-ex-
ist. Within this schema, the researcher is required to articulate knowledge which is
robust enough to be objective and generalisable, but at the same time accounts for
individual subjective thought and action. (Grenfell and James 1998: 10).
In his monograph, Material Thinking, Paul Carter (2004) helps to extend under-
standings of the subjective and relational dimensions of the artistic process. He
describes this process as one that involves a decontexualisation from established or
universal discourse to instances of particular experience. In staging itself as an art-
work, the particularity of experience is then returned to the universal. Carter suggests
that “material thinking” specific to artistic research creates a record of the studio
process as a means of creating new relations of knowledge subsequent to produc-
tion. Another useful term for understanding the emergent aspect of artistic research
and the dynamics of the circulation of artistic products, is Barbara Bolt’s notion of
“materialising practices” which implies an ongoing performative engagement and
productivity both at moments of production and consumption (Bolt 2004). Rather
than constituting a relationship between image and text (implied by Carter’s material
thinking), materialising practices constitute relationships between process and text—of
which the first iteration is necessarily the researcher’s own self-reflexive mapping of
the emergent work as enquiry. A dialogic relationship between studio practice and the
artist’s own critical commentary in writing of the creative arts exegesis is crucial to
articulating and harnessing the outcomes of these materialising practices for further
application.
An elaboration of the subjective nature of the artistic research process can also be
found in the principles of problem or action-based learning. A basic premise of such
pedagogies is that knowledge is generated through action and reflection. Various ap-
proaches to problem-based learning share a number of common features, which are
of relevance to creative arts research. Firstly, the acquisition of knowledge in such
approaches, involves learner-centred activity driven by real-world problems or chal-
lenges in which the learner is actively engaged in finding a solution. The experiential
approach (Kolb 1984) starts from one’s own lived experience and personal reactions.
Learning takes place through action and intentional, explicit reflection on that action.
This approach acknowledges that we cannot separate knowledge to be learned from
situations in which it is used. Thus situated enquiry or learning demonstrates a unity
between problem, context and solution. A general feature of practice-based research
projects is that personal interest and experience, rather than objective “disinterested-
ness” motivates the research process. This is an advantage to be exploited, since in
terms of the acquisition of knowledge, artistic research provides a more profound
model of learning—one that not only incorporates the acquisition of knowledge
pre-determined by the curriculum—but also involves the revealing or production
of new knowledge not anticipated by the curriculum. As such, studio-based research
provides an heuristic model for innovative practice–based pedagogies at all levels
of university learning—one that provides a rationale for the integration of theory
and practice as a basis for research training at undergraduate level both within and
beyond creative arts disciplines.
Emergent Methodologies
Subjective approaches in artistic research are implicated in and give rise to a second
feature of practice as research: its emergent methodologies. Martin Heidegger’s no-
tion of “praxical knowledge” or what he theorised as the material basis of knowl-
edge, provides a philosophical framework for understanding the acquisition of hu-
man knowledge as emergent. His work also provides a rationale for applying emer-
gent approaches in research. Praxical knowledge implies that ideas and theory are
ultimately the result of practice rather than vice versa. Drawing on Heidegger, Don
Ihde extends this idea through his elaboration of “technics”, which he refers to
as: ‘human actions or embodied relations involving the manipulation of artefacts
to produce effects within the environment (Ihde 1990: 3). These “effects” broadly
understood as “knowledge” emerge through material processes. Because such proc-
esses are (at least in part) predicated on the tacit and alternative logic of practice in
time, their precise operations cannot be predetermined.
The broader concept of emergence has more recently been studied by thinkers
who are concerned with understanding the relationship between physical events and
mental phenomena, and who have replaced the notion of “materialism” with that
of “physicalism” (Beckermann 1992: 1). Central to the work of such thinkers, is the
theory of emergent evolution which asserts that as systems develop, their material
configurations become more complex. A further claim of such theory is that, once
a certain critical level of complexity is reached in any system, genuinely novel prop-
erties—those that have never been instantiated before—emerge. These emergent
effects are not predictable before their first occurrence. (Beckermann 1992: 15-29).
Irrespective of whether one subscribes to this paradigm of thought, the idea of
emergent evolution provides a useful model for understanding emergent methodol-
ogy in creative arts research.
It is Bourdieu however, who advances a more compelling explanation of emergent
process as both an aspect and strength of the subjective dimension of research. He
suggests that reflexivity in such research involves not only a focus on the validation
of data and outcomes, but also the positioning of oneself in relation to other fields
in order to reveal the character and sources of one’s interest. In this research context,
reflexivity demands that both the researcher and her/his methods be submitted to
the same questions that are asked of the object of the enquiry (Bourdieu 1993: 49).
Since the researcher’s relationship to the object of study (material or mental) is of
central concern in practice-based methodologies, they are in accord with Bourdieu’s
notion of reflexivity. As a result of this reflexive process, methodologies in artistic
research are necessarily emergent and subject to repeated adjustment, rather than re-
maining fixed throughout the process of enquiry. We can now argue that because of
its inbuilt reflexivity, the emergent aspect of artistic research methodology may be
viewed as a positive feature to be to be factored into the design of research projects
rather than as a flaw to be understated or avoided.This advantage will be more spe-
cifically illustrated in the reflections of artist/researchers presented in this volume.
INTRODUCTION 7
Interdisciplinarity and Creative Arts Research

An often vexed issue in creative arts research is related to establishing the work in
an identifiable location within the broader arena made up of more clearly defined
disciplines or domains of knowledge. This issue has given rise to some contention in
relation to visual culture. Such debates may also be applied to any of the creative arts
areas. (Bal, Mitchell, Elkins, Mirzoeff et al 2003). An understanding of such debates
and a grasp of just what is implied by the idea of interdisciplinary enquiry, may be
crucial in the design and development of research projects as well as in terms of ar-
ticulating the significance of research and maximising its outcomes and applications.
Scholars—notably Robyn Stewart (2003, 2001) and Graeme Sullivan (2004)—have
done a great deal to extend our understandings in relation to the former. What I
would like to stress here, is that: just as the material basis of artistic research results
in approaches that are necessarily emergent, the subjective and personally situated
aspect of artistic research— its relationality or what Carter refers to as its capacity
to reinvent social relations (Carter 2004:10)—results in research that is ultimately
interdisciplinary. Within the context of knowledge-production, social relations are
after all, implicated in almost every disciplinary field. How to fully realise and exploit,
rather than apologise for this ineluctable interdisciplinary dimension of creative arts
research, is a question that needs to be repeatedly fore-grounded in practice as re-
search discourse and training. Roland Barthes’ view that interdisciplinary study or
enquiry creates a new object that belongs to no one (Newell 1988) provides a ration-
ale for acknowledging the innovative potential of the fluid location and application
of creative arts research approaches and outcomes. The juxtaposing of disparate
objects and ideas has, after all, often been viewed as an intrinsic aspect of creativity.
The interplay of ideas from disparate areas of knowledge in creative arts research
creates conditions for the emergence of new analogies, metaphors and models for
understanding objects of enquiry. Hence the capacity of artistic research for illumi-
nating subject matter of both the artistic domain as well as that belonging to other
domains and disciplines of knowledge.
John W. Rowe (2003) suggests that interdisciplinary research is a critical step in the
evolution of research on complex issues. The myth of the solitary scientist in search
of truth is anachronistic, and the absurdity of trying to solve problems with inad-
equate tools is driving moves towards more integrated approaches to research in the
sciences and more traditional disciplines. (Rowe 2003: 2). An acknowledgement that
the myth of the solitary artist attempting to solve the problems of the world is also
obsolete will help to remove major barriers to understanding the philosophical di-
mension of artistic practice. In order to enhance this process, researchers may need
to be less defensive and reticent about their practical approaches and theoretical
contexts and more pro-active in inserting creative arts research discourses and meth-
odologies into other disciplinary research arenas. We also need to be more articulate
in elaborating how creative arts practice engages with, and can extend theoretical and
philosophical paradigms. In summary, the task for studio researchers goes beyond
generating appropriate discourses to establish the value of their activities as research
to that of taking an interest in the deployment and circulation of outcomes of artis-
tic research beyond the studio process and initial points of economic exchange. This
in turn, may open up possibilities for refiguring and expanding what is commonly
understood as research, knowledge and cultural capital.
Beyond the Quantum: Rethinking Cultural Capital

Given that the artistic domain has tended to exceed the parameters of knowledge
management, a question often raised is: “How can artistic researchers establish iden-
tifiable criteria for evaluating both the approaches and methodologies it uses and for
assessing the significance and value of its outcomes as research?” Louise Johnson’s
(2004) investigation of the impact of the arts in so called rust belt cities, which draws
on New Zealand economist Anne De Bruin’s notion of embodied cultural capital, is
pertinent to this question. Johnson suggests that the value of cultural capital is not
only dependent on the field in which it is produced, but also through the institutional
and social contexts in which it is received and circulated. She identifies several categories
of cultural capital: objectified cultural capital, which refers to artefacts or products
such as paintings, books, performances, films and other community events; institu-
tionalised cultural capital which refers to those artefacts and activities that are pub-
lished, funded, commissioned, endorsed and deployed by government and other in-
stitutions and the final category, embodied cultural capital, described as the creative
abilities talents, styles, values and dispositions of individuals and communities that
emerge from, and relate to artistic production and its deployment. This “intangi-
ble” form of cultural capital encompasses dynamics of reciprocity operating outside
economic exchange, and includes such things as community confidence, pride cohe-
sion and sense of identity. The reconceptualisation of cultural capital along these
lines may open new ways of understanding, valuing and measuring the outcomes
of artistic research in the future. Of more immediate interest, is the relevance of
Johnson’s work to my discussion of the features and approaches of artistic research
discussed in this book. The notion of embodied cultural capital as talents styles,
values and dispositions of individuals not only links contexts of artistic production
with contexts of consumption, but also allows us to recast the subjective, emergent
and socially relational or interdisciplinary approaches of artistic research in terms of
knowledge or cultural capital that is predicated on the generative and performative
dimensions of making art.
Overview of Chapters
In the first Chapter Paul Carter considers the emergence of practice-based or crea-
tive research and the problem of assessing its value within the context of what he
terms “the ethics of invention.” Drawing on Danish Artist Asger Jorn’s assertion
that invention is the science of the unknown and therefore presupposes interest or
curiosity, Carter points out that interest is what invention adds when it transforms
the status quo. He observes that an important question then becomes: “in whose
interest is invention sponsored?” This is an ethical question that is also intrinsically
implicated in practice. Drawing on a number of design projects in which he has
been involved, Carter reflects on the research process within the context of col-
INTRODUCTION 9
laboration and broader social relations; relations between the specific concerns of
creative practice, material thinking and the more distanced and abstract discourses of
government and other institutions that influence both the process and applications
of invention. Carter’s ethics of invention highlights the necessity for a right attitude
towards collaboration and the forging of a language that will enhance the possibil-
ity of a reintegration of practice-based enquiry with other approaches to research
—an integration aimed at extending understandings of the epistemological and so-
cial value of invention.
In Chapter Two, Barbara Bolt considers the relationship between studio enquiry
and the meta-reflective work of the exegesis in her chapter ‘The magic is in han-
dling’. Her application of Martin Heidegger’s notion of handlability demonstrates
that practice or experience (sense activity), rather than theory is the basis for research
and discovery. Drawing initially on David Hockney’s investigation into the use of
optical aids by artists such as Ingres, and then on her own painting practice, Bolt
demonstrates how the “new” is not a quest to be pursued or a self conscious at-
tempt at transgression, but rather, it is the particular understandings that are realised
through our dealings with the tools and materials of production and in the handling
of ideas.
In Chapter Three, Gaylene Perry’s (2004) offers reflections on the studio writing
research project for her PhD. This project resulted in the publication, by Picador, of
Midnight Water: A Memoir (Perry 2004). The work, which combines autobiography
and fiction, demonstrates a crucial aspect of creative writing as research. In her
reflection on the development of her research, the writer’s focus shifts from the tan-
gible artefact (the novel) to what she has subsequently understood as the intangible
benefits of the studio enquiry. She has found that the act of creative writing is, in
itself, an agent of emotional reconciliation and change; the imaginative act confers
empowerment that has real and material effects. Creative writing, permits a collapse
between fiction and reality and a reconnection with real life events permitting emo-
tions to be moulded and shaped as reparation and redemption. In this instance, Per-
ry’s writing process resulted in the remodelling of her own familial relationships.
A feature of studio-based enquiry is that the method unfolds through practice—
practice is itself, productive of knowledge and engenders further practice demon-
strating the emergent nature of the process. Perry’s observations and experience
raise questions about “common sense” distinctions made between objectivity and
subjectivity, fiction and truth. The real transformation experienced by the writer,
suggests broader applications of creative practice for dealing with grief and trauma
in the community.
As demonstrated in Chapter Four, personal and subjective concerns also motivat-
ed Dianne Reid’s dance/film project, Cutting Choreography: Redefining Dance on Screen,
research completed for Master of Arts at Deakin University in 2001. The project
investigates dance as an art form in which the languages and technical processes
of film reflect and inform choreography. The work is an attempt to translate the
kinaesthetic intimacy of dance onto the screen using montage as the site for the
realisation of innovative choreographic form. Reid observes that practice makes tan-
gible the theoretical. Her practice-led research resulted in an externalisation of the

dancer’s ideas concerning the condition of the aging body in contemporary dance.
The outcome of this research included both the development of a new hybrid dance
form, as well as the revelation of new knowledge and understandings made possible
through this form.
Reid’s video and film editing techniques, used as instruments for closer inspection
of the relationship between movement and screen space provide multiple perspec-
tives and choices for choreographing dance. The completed work is both an arte-
fact for performance as well as a critical discourse on society’s view of ageing. Her
research involved practice as a response to lived experience, the temporal, the per-
sonal and the collaborative—revealing how new subject matter requires new forms
of expression and representation. The research has also shown how the role of
choreographer may be extended and demonstrates the potential of film and digital
technologies to revitalise choreographic form.
The knowledge-producing potential of practice is again articulated in Chapter
Five, Annette Iggulden’s reflections on her doctoral research project “Silence”: In The
Space of Words and Images (2003). This research involved the production of a body
of paintings through investigation of illuminated manuscripts copied and embel-
lished by medieval monastery nuns in Europe and England. The project emerged
as part of the artist’s personal response to what she perceives as ongoing constraints
placed on women in society and her own particular experience of the imposition of
silence in childhood. Iggulden’s focus on the copying and visual embellishment of
text and margins of illuminated manuscripts revealed a code of visual communica-
tion adopted by the monastery nuns suggesting their resistance to the imposition
of silence on women in monastic orders. This has hitherto not been recognised or
understood by historians.
Iggulden’s practice, which initially involved an investigation of the aesthetics of
the work of the nuns, resulted in the discovery of “codes” developed through the
use of coloured forms abstracted from the shapes of spaces in the lettering of the
scripts. These “shapes”, often appearing in the margins of the manuscripts, have not
generally been considered beyond their decorative capacity. Iggulden’s research and
more principally her practice which involved copying sections of script for aesthetic
manipulation in her own paintings, also uncovered a more profound intellectual and
aesthetic engagement with the contents of the manuscripts by medieval monastic
nuns from silenced orders. In addition to contributing to historical knowledge and
understanding of these medieval manuscripts, the project provided the artist with
an alternative code and a new visual form for exploring and expressing her own
gendered identity.
Of the actual research approach and methodological process, Iggulden observes
that it was impossible to separate writing and research from the circumstances of
her life. The process of discovery elaborated by the artist suggests that that theory
is always secondary to intuitive response, and is ultimately sacrificed to the material
and temporal demands of making the work and finding a means of expressing previ-
ously inexpressible psychological states. Practice-based research methods are again
INTRODUCTION 11
shown to be emergent, moving between theory, and the changing demands of the
artist’s physical and psychological states as well as those of material studio processes.
At each step, practice itself, determined the direction and method to be followed.
Chapter Six is a reflection by Shaun McLeod on his dance project “Chamber”: Ex-
periencing Masculine Identity through Dance Improvisation completed for a Master of Arts
by practice and exegesis in 2002. His account reveals how the multiple levels at which
creative arts research operates can produce an economically viable artefact and at the
same time, generate less “tangible” outcomes that have the potential for changing
social and cultural discourses and practices. Chamber was choreographed by McLeod
and performed at Dancehouse in Melbourne in April 2002. McLeod suggests that
in this instance, dance as research, is not only a form of entertainment, but can be
used as a means of revealing aspects of masculine identity and of modelling internal
human conditions in ways not available to other modes of enquiry. The use of im-
provisation as the main methodological vehicle of investigation provides interesting
illustration and extension of Bourdieu’s ideas concerning the relationship between
institutional structures, intuition, knowledge and research. In this research, dance is
used a means of the exploring and articulating experiences which give shape to nu-
ances of masculinity. It also permits a re-embodiment of what has remained unana-
lysed and unspoken in institutional discourses of the male body. The significance
of improvisation lies in its capacity for effecting an ongoing dialogue between the
objective and the phenomenal, and mirroring the relationship between theory and
practice. In this project, improvisation offered a temporary suspension of the cultur-
ally encoded masculine order, providing the performers with a way of externalising
socially repressed material derived from pleasure and memory through practice. It
also presents the choreographer with an opportunity to select from spontaneously
generated moves and images in order to extend choreographic possibilities. Drawing
on the alternative logic of practice, and allowing the private self to enact the world
through dance, improvisation also extends the cultural, emotional and psychological
universe of possibilities.
In Chapter Seven, Kim Vincs’ revisits her PhD thesis Rhizome/MyZone: The Produc-
tion of Subjectivity in Dance, (2003). This account emphasises the specificity of Vincs’
practice as a research methodology and demonstrates the interaction of theory and
practice in the production of knowledge. The project investigates dance as a process
of individuation and as an alternative to “ready-to-wear” identities available in mass
communication and institutional structures. In this project there is shift from dance
as object of investigation, to dance as means of investigating. Dance constitutes a
methodology alongside other more traditional and empirical research methods. Prac-
tice is presented as an actual method of knowledge-production and thinking.
Vincs observes that knowledge from any field is inseparable from that of oth-
er fields. In this project choreography and performance are shown to operate as
fields of rhizomic structures that articulate with theoretical domains: out of dance,
emerged issues that became objects of investigation; the development of new dance
methodologies were subsequently needed to explore those issues. The emergent and
“retrospective” methodology applied, permitted conceptual and practical applica-
tion and synthesis of the known with the new, bringing fresh choreographic per-
spectives and new interpretations to performance. The research reveals how dance
can operate as a map connecting elements that could not otherwise be translated or
apprehended in isolation. As in other artistic research projects, the personal and the
subjective accompany objective processes both in the practice and the writing, con-
veying an inevitable continuity of the personal and the private within the research
process.
Chapter Eight, one of the chapters that focuses principally on the research ex-
egesis or writing, emerges from a direct reflection of the practice as research proc-
ess by Stephen Goddard. ‘A correspondence between practices’ consists of meta-
commentary on his PhD project, Lorne Story: Reflections On a Video Postcard, which
examines the imaginary and reflexive space of video storytelling. Lorne Story is an
autobiographical video memoir, a hybrid form of postcard developed from the
director’s video notebook. It explores the interface between screen and audience.
Referring to the work of Gilles Deleuze, Goddard notes that philosophical theory
is a practice in itself. He acknowledges that one of the concerns of research in the
discipline is to develop appropriate strategies that link established methodologies in
research with emergent methodologies derived from contemporary arts practices.
In this project, both studio production and writing become exegetical through their
capacity to be used in analysis and interpretation of each other. Goddard shows us
that the relationship between practice and reflective writing in artistic research, is not
one of equivalence, but of correspondence. In this mutually reflexive process the
modelling of another model of consciousness is irreducible and contains a remain-
der or excess. This excess is a core aspect of the studio-based enquiry. It relates to
an alternative logic of practice and to the knowledge-producing capacity of practice
as research.
In Chapter Nine, ‘creating new stories for praxis: navigations, narrations neonar-
ratives’, Robyn Stewart explores the complex interrelationship that exists between
artistic research and other research and scholarly paradigms. Mapping is again used
as a metaphor to extend understandings of practice-based research methodologies
and narrative methods that are appropriate for situating and articulating the research
process and its outcomes. Acknowledging the emergent and subjective dimension of
artistic research, Stewart describes this method as a process of continuous discovery,
correspondence, contradictions, intuition, surprise, serendipity and discipline. Draw-
ing on her extensive experience in artistic research and studio-based research train-
ing, she applies the notion of “bricolage” in her explication of approaches in practice
as research. These approaches draw on multiple fields and piece together multiple
practices in order to provide solutions to concrete and conceptual problems.
One of the difficulties that practitioner researchers often face is related to having
to write about their own work in the research exegesis or report. In Chapter Ten, I
suggest that this difficulty can be overcome by shifting the critical focus away from
the notion of the work as product, to an understanding of both studio enquiry
and evaluation of its outcomes as a philosophical process that moves between es-
tablished theory and the situated knowledge that emerges through practice. I draw,
INTRODUCTION 13
principally, on Michel Foucault’s essay ‘What is an author’ and Donna Haraway’s

elaborations of “situated knowledge” and “partial objectivity” to explore how we
might move from writing “art criticism” to generating a critical discourse of practice
-led enquiry that involves viewing the artist as a researcher, and the artist/critic as
a scholar who comments on the value of the artistic process as the production of
knowledge. In order to ground my discussion in practice, I also refer to the mak-
ing of Pablo Picasso’s Demoiselles d’Avignon and a number of commentaries on this
ground-breaking work.
In Chapter Eleven, Brad Haseman considers the question of how creative prac-
titioners can take their place at the research table in a way which ensures that the
primacy of practice and the embedded epistemologies of practice are respected and
valued. He examines three significant innovations made by researchers who are initi-
ating and pursuing their research through practice and draws on a successful practice
as research project, Theatre Director David Fenton’s Ph.D thesis, Unstable Acts as ex-
emplification. Haseman suggests that whilst methodological innovations in the crea-
tive arts represent fundamentally different research procedures to those that operate
in the quantitative and qualitative orthodoxies, they have significant implications for
the whole field of research. These innovations include defining practice-led research,
establishing multiple research methods led by practice and proposing alternative
modes of knowledge representation. The chapter concludes by arguing for practice-
led research to be understood as a research strategy within an entirely new research
paradigm—“Performative Research”. Taking its name from J.L. Austin’s speech act
theory, performative research stands as a third species of research which has the
potential to bridge the gap between the research expectations of creative practition-
ers in the arts, media and design and the protocols set by the research industry and
learned bodies which define what stands as research and what does not.
The importance of replication and articulation of the slippery relationship be-
tween the logic of practice and objective processes is discussed in the final chapter
entitled ‘The exegesis as meme’. Within the context of this metaphor, the artistic
product is viewed as a vehicle for the externalisation of ideas or knowledge. The need
to focus on process as well as product in studio-based research is again emphasised.
In this chapter, I suggest that Richard Dawkin’s criteria for evaluating the success of
memes: a capacity for self-replication, fitness or likelihood of being replicated, and
fecundity or speed of replication may be applied as criteria for evaluating the suc-
cess of creative arts research and research outcomes. For example, the capacity for
self-replication of creative arts research may be equated with how its methods and
outcomes are generalised and applied beyond the particular research context within
the discipline. Fitness or likelihood of being replicated may refer to the capacity of
the research to be generalised and/or applied in multiple contexts beyond the disci-
pline. Finally, fecundity—the speed of replication required to produce critical mass
and stability—may be equated with publication, proliferation and the recognition of
research and its broader cultural impact.
1
INTEREST: THE ETHICS

OF INVENTION
Paul Carter
The problem of assessing the value of inventions is not new. Writing in 1787, in an
open letter to Adam Smith, author of The Wealth of Nations, Utilitarian philosopher
Jeremy Bentham coined the phrase “invention-lottery”.1 Referring to the mechanism
of invention as art, he called those who engaged in it projectors. Two hundred and
thirty years later, this vocabulary is still familiar to us. Bentham took a fairly broad
view of art, probably meaning to indicate any and all the crafts that lead to the im-
provement of the amenities of life.
The emergence of practice-based or creative research as an overarching term to
describe the nature of work across a range of fields formerly considered distinct (at
least in the academy) curiously circles back to Bentham’s conception. It may seem
obvious that the techniques different modes of creativity use are different: the great
divide between language-based and image-based arts remains. In Material Thinking
(2004) I have questioned this distinction, arguing for a hybrid discursivity, common
to both when they circulate in the public realm.2 But in any case, we can agree with
Bentham that, insofar as these different modes of imaginative projection can be
grouped together, the property they have in common is that of invention.
In the process of invention the heterogeneous interests of the poet, the choreog-
rapher, the hip-hop deejay, the AutoCad designer and the landscape architect display
their common interests. The condition of invention—the state of being that allows
a state of becoming to emerge—is a perception, or recognition, of the ambiguity of
appearances. Invention begins when what signifies exceeds its signification—when
what means one thing, or conventionally functions in one role, discloses other pos-
sibilities. The ambiguity noticed at this time is the excess of materiality that resists
semiotic distillation, the supplement of matter that haunts communication. It is the
pun or homophone in language, the Freudian form in architecture, the sound in-
between in musical composition, the both-and gestures in choreography. Aristotle
advised the orator that there were rules of invention. Similarly, we all have tech-
niques of invention. The poet explores the ambiguous realm between language and
music; the deejay between music and the materiality of noise. In general, a double
movement occurs, of decontextualisation in which the found elements are rendered
strange, and of recontextualisation, in which new families of association and struc-
tures of meaning are established. This double movement characterises any concep-
tual advance. In philosophy, it is the Socratic method. The distinction of practice-
based research is to mediate this process materially, allowing the unpredictable and
differential situation to influence what is found. Technique is necessary, but in the
transformation it falls away.
In our context, this double movement of invention is not simply a matter of
praxis, it also represents the critical difference of creative research from other forms
of critical enquiry: for cultural scholars—anthropologists, sociologists, historians—
are no doubt skilled in analysing the underlying structures informing our symbolic
forms, but they cannot put back together what they have shattered. They are suspi-
cious of our reconstructions, precisely because, in incorporating self-differing quali-
ties of growth, transformation and excessive materiality, they defy a unilateral semi-
otic reduction. However different their forms, the outcomes of creative research, or
art in Jeremy Bentham’s terminology, share a common belief in the epistemological
value of invention. It is not simply that they want to improve the status of creativ-
ity in the Australian research culture. They argue that invention embodies a distinct
way of knowing the world. It is a powerful, because complex and multi-sensorial,
method of real-world analysis, and its aleatory, constitutionally open, anything-goes
character, which is said to weaken its claim to rigour, is, in reality, a sign of its so-
phistication. In the present research environment practice-based research represents
a concerted attack on the institutionalised separation of the heuristic disciplines (the
Sciences, broadly) from the hermeneutical ones (broadly, the Humanities). This is
not to say that reintegration is assured: the greatest obstacle to progress is the lack of
a language that can mediate the meaning of our constitutionally localised inventions
to a community that identifies power with abstraction and the dematerialisation of
thought from the matrix of its production. It is precisely here that Material Thinking
seeks to make a contribution.3
Bentham spoke of the promotors of art as projectors. It is another term that curi-
ously anticipates our own. Those involved in creative or practice-based research usu-
ally talk about what they do in terms of projects. Their work is a speculative throwing
forward of the mind. The image of bridge-building suggests itself, but also the pros-
pect of failure. Here another of Bentham’s observations will no doubt strike a chord:
‘The career of art, the great road which receives the footsteps of projectors, may be
considered as a vast, and perhaps unbounded, plain, bestrewed with gulphs, such as
Curtius was swallowed up in. Each requires an human victim to fall into it ere it can
close, but when it once closes, it closes to open no more, and so much of the path is
safe to those who follow’.4 If we modernise this metaphor, the urban landscape of
creative research remains much the same. We project our work out over abysses of
scepticism, often made wider by erosive economic considerations, and, as often as
not, our designs, instead of supplying bridgeheads to the new, stand abandoned, like
cranes on buildings whose speculators went bust. They point, but to what? I want
to come back to the metaphor of the project in a moment, but first I want to take
up this question of direction, the notion that the achievements of practice-based
research can be strung like beads on the linear rosary of national progress.
THE ETHICS OF INVENTION 17
The hallmark of modernity is invention and in Australia this statement has a par-
ticular nuance. Despite the historical revisionists, it remains, in a sense, correct to say
that Cook “discovered” Australia. Etymologically, discover and invent have the same
root, and both mean ‘to come across or upon’. As a rational speculation, the colony,
which Phillip inaugurated, was the offspring of projectors borrowing against the fu-
ture. The First Fleet was a bridgehead to enhanced territorial and commercial wealth.
Bentham’s topographical analogy, in which the advancement of knowledge and the
conquest of new territories go hand in hand, is reproduced a thousand-fold in the
literature of colonial exploration and survey: every explorer cast himself as a latter-
day Mettius Curtius, prepared to sacrifice himself for the territorial security of those
who came after him. But the economic metaphor is as strong as the geographical
one. Bentham’s object in defending the value of art and projectors was to combat
what he saw as the prejudice against usury or money-lending. The system of lend-
ing money at an agreed interest rate was, he thought, essential to material progress.
Projectors should be encouraged to borrow, usurers to lend. In a country like Britain,
whose prosperity depended on sea trade, he said, this was especially important. Aus-
tralia was, and continues to be, an invention of this speculative economy. The Aus-
tralia invoked in school textbooks, by politicians, and even in the national research
priorities of the government is an invention whose value depends on the interest it
generates. It may be that these oddly speculative origins explain the perennial inse-
curity said to characterise the Australian psyche. In any case, it underlines the point
that Australia and invention are cognate terms. As practice-based researchers, our
research is not supplementary to Australia’s interests—it is the interest of our inven-
tions that secures it.
You can see, then, that a discussion about the ethics of invention extends beyond
the particular uses to which particular inventions are put. Even the apparently clear-
cut issues raised by the invention of the hydrogen bomb, or the progress of the ge-
nome project, cannot be understood in isolation from a larger social context. Nor do
I mean by this that their social history needs to be written, or sociologies of inven-
tion produced (valuable as these are). The larger social context I have in mind does
not stand outside the culture of invention but is integral to it. This is evident in the
phrase “an ethics of invention”, which does not mean the science that differentiates
“good” inventions from “bad” ones, but refers to the custom or habit of invention.
To understand the social value of what we are doing, we need to study the process of
creativity, rather than its outcomes. The word interest does not refer to an outcome es-
tablished as operationally efficient or conventionally true, but to a relationship. Inter-
esse means to be between. Interest produces the desire to go beyond oneself. This is
why the German philosopher Herbart identified it as the psychological precondition
of educability. Education, from educere, to lead out. But for this desire to go beyond
ourselves, we could not encounter what is not yet (for ourselves)—what scientists
like to call the new but others call the other. Interest is the desire to collaborate: and
collaboration is a microcosm of the new relation or worldly arrangement we desire
to create. The ethics of invention reside not in the truth of what is found but in the
interest of what is done. ‘In the real world it is more important that a proposition be
interesting than that it be true. The importance of truth is, that it adds to interest’,
Whitehead observed in Process and Reality.5 And, when the ideas we put forward fall
on deaf ears, another of his aphorisms may console us: ‘Truth is a special case of
interest’.6 This is why invention always involves an ethical question.
Interest is what matters in creative research. But we could say this the other way
about: for the phrases “what is interesting” and “what matters” are synonymous.
What makes creative research interesting is its attitude towards, its ethos, if you like,
in regard to materials. This may seem obvious to you, but I assure you that in the
abstract discourses that bear on, and sometimes bear down upon, the activities of
the artist, designer, choreographer or producer, it is anything but clear. One object
of Material Thinking is to show how this drift to abstraction, in which the study of
knowledge is separated from the processes that produce it can be reversed. The re-
integration of study and process involves a re-evaluation of matter— of, we might
say, what matters. The power of thought in the technocratic discourses common to
academe, government and business involves an algebraic reduction of language’s
richness. In these discourses terms are defined abstractly, in ways that detach them
from the poetic matrix of their production, circulation and mutation. Inventiveness
is taken out of language. Those charged with maximising shareholder profits or
minimising public liability speak as if truth were the elimination of interest.
It is in this context that I speak of strong collaboration:
When nationally valuable research is identified with scientific and technological

breakthroughs yielding private industry benefits (technological applications of
inventions, the awarding of patents, and so on) or public managerial benefits
(information retrieval and processing in the domain of demographic trends,
for example), there is no taste for complex interactions. When research is syn-
onymous with problem-solving and crisis-management, criteria of success are
simplification, resolution, closure. In the process of conducting research, new
“problems” emerge; but these are treated in the same way. Within this model it
is self-evident that a research question without a simple answer is not a proper
subject for research.
In contrast with these weak forms of collaboration, creative research, re-
specting the materiality of thought—its localisation in the act of invention—
has a different object. It studies complexity and it defends complex systems of
communication against over-simplification. It explores the irreducible hetero-
geneity of cultural identity, the always unfinished process of making and re-
making ourselves through our symbolic forms. Its success cannot be measured
in terms of simplification and closure. Exploring the reinvention of social rela-
tions at that place does not produce a “discovery” that can be generalised and
patented. It is an imaginative breakthrough, which announces locally different
forms of sociability, environmental interactivity and collective storytelling.
These effects of national interest will be missed so long as the “nearly wide open
anything goes” collective desire of self-becoming is not regarded as a legitimate
research field. Creative researchers and “industry partners” (to follow the
present rubric) can only broker strong collaborations if they share this mytho-
poetic goal. Public artists, say, can have no effect on public space design if their
commissioning agency segregates them from the design process as whole. Even
if their material thinking is admitted to that larger conversation, it can make no
difference unless all parties commit themselves to a process of self reinvention.
That process has a technical aspect, and represents a procedural challenge, but
the value of the complexity it introduces into the relation between poiesis and
place-making is that it mirrors the complexity of the “client”, who is not a
committee but a more or less nebulous collectivity of heterogeneous interests
representing the “unfinished” character of society at large. (Carter 2004: 13)
The act of according value to matter is not simply a precondition of your art, as
Bentham put it. It is a philosophical attitude or ethos. Material thinking—what hap-
pens when matter stands in-between the collaborators supplying the discursive situa-
tion of their work—is a different method of constructing the world in which we live.
Throughout the history of Western philosophy, invention has been a missing term.
Resolving the great question the Greeks bequeathed us, the reality or otherwise of
change, has been hampered by a disdain for what the practical arts have to teach us
about the construction and reconstruction of the world we make. With distinguished
exceptions (Vico and Bachelard amongst them), philosophers have ignored the ethos
of materials— their tendency to combination. When Husserl, for example, wrestled
with the problem of the historical transmission and development of geometry, he
found the evolution of an ideal form paradoxical because he left out the interest
that drove its invention and re-invention. Material is never brute matter; it is always
between ourselves, hiding us from, but also leading us towards, what we may come
across. But for its being interesting, there would be no reason to act at this place.
The point of these general remarks is to assert the value of invention— which, I
maintain, as the distinct focus of creative research, is located neither after nor before
the process of making but in the performance itself. This can be the case because
the making process always issues from, and folds back into a social relation. It is this
back-and-forth or discourse, that provides the testing-ground of new ideas, and which
establishes their interest. From the point of view of creative research, materials are
always in a state of becoming. They are not to be imagined as crystalline, dry or el-
emental but as colloidal, humid and combinatory. The good artist calibrates rates of
exchange, and, in this sense, Bentham’s figure of art as a mastering of abysses needs
to be recognised as a peculiarly wilful and environmentally-alienated conception of
innovation. As I have suggested in Repressed Spaces (2002), the story of Mettius Cur-
tius, the brave young citizen who offered himself as a human sacrifice when a fissure
opened in the Roman forum, may be an allegory about the engineering spirit that
disregards the lie of the land and its ghosts. In any case, ours is a period when the
car assembly signifiers of innovation need to undergo change. Complexity replaces
simplicity; swarms, blebs, groups, degrees of randomness, qualities of asymmetrical
temporality and local difference provide units of design that supersede linear quali-
ties of self-sufficiency, repetition, smoothness, symmetry and global homogeneity.

It is in this way that the materiality of materials, materialised in the act of invention,
assumes an ethical role in human affairs:
Materials become material signs when, in the process of creative collaboration,

they hand themselves over to each other. But it is important that the handing
over occurs in the right way. There is an ethics of scattering and recombina-
tion…. A right attitude towards materials is itself a concomitant of a right
attitude towards collaboration. And this combination of right handing over at
a material and interpersonal level expresses the idea of a different social rela-
tion, in which people may inhabit their environment recreatively rather than
destructively. (Carter 2004: 183-184)
In 2002 I had the opportunity to present these ideas in the context of developing
a public space strategy at Melbourne’s Docklands. A group within the property de-
veloper Lendlease had signalled their desire to break the tower-plinth approach to
the design and arrangement of built structures across their site, and invited me to
develop ‘a robust template or ground pattern that can be used as the basis for the
siting, scaling and distribution of urban and landscape design elements throughout
the site’.7 My approach was to define two principles that would allow the site analysis
to take into account aspects of the site that eluded conventional recognition, and to
produce a set of what I called “Descriptions” or thinking drawings, that sought to
notice, if not to notate, movement forms whose traces were integral to the charac-
terisation of the place. First, I enunciated what I called “The Argo Principle”:
Historically, the Harbour has been a site of exchange. Exchange occurs wher-
ever a place of meeting produces change. As the focus of trade, the Harbour
married movement and change. To pass through the harbour meant a change
of value and state. It meant entering a zone of flux and transformation. Over
time every element in the Harbour was replaced, repriced, relocated, re-invent-
ed. This principle doesn’t mean ignoring what is reported in recent Melbourne
Docklands Heritage Studies. It simply means looking at that information in
a different light—as a legacy of appearances and disappearances. In short, a
history of change. In this way attention shifts from static objects to mobile
processes. It becomes possible to see the space as a dynamic, self-reinventing
network of tracks, outlines, shadows, edges, sightlines and wakes—to see it
as if it were reflected in the ever-changing face of the water. The Greek hero,
Jason, sailed to get the Golden Fleece in the Argo. It was a long voyage, and
gradually the ship’s timbers rotted. By the time Jason came home, every timber
of the Argo had been replaced. The Argo was a completely new ship. In this
way the old ship survived through constant movement and change, completely
reinvented. Hence the Argo Principle: applied to Victoria Harbour, it states
that the essential mobile, changeful character of the site is best described as a
heritage of invention. (Carter 2002: 7)
Second, I described what I called “The Asterisk Principle”, arguing that:
The character of the Victoria Harbour site is often found in what is left out
of conventional histories. Conventional histories document the foundation of
places, the growth of communities, architectural and other events of impor-
tance. By this definition, Victoria Harbour hardly has a history. Early maps
either leave it as a blank space, or simply write “swamp”. Foundations, of
course, cannot be put down in swamps. As Melbourne grew in civic pride and
self-consciousness, so the low land west of the old Batman’s Hill, and north to
West Melbourne Swamp, dropped out of consciousness. It was a non-place,
rubbish was dumped there, and polluting industry. The Victoria Harbour site
had no place in conventional histories. In compensation, it was an area where
dreams multiplied. These were mainly engineers’ dreams: from the earliest days
of white settlement to the period of containerisation, imaginative engineers
and surveyors have been drawing residential, commercial and marine utopias
over the site. The Victoria Harbour is the place where dreams of other places
have collected. This fact was reinforced when the swamp was transformed
into Victoria Docks, becoming a port of national and global significance. The
languages of the sailors, the starlore of ship’s captains, the gymnastics of the
wharfies, the commercial intelligence and opportunism of Melbourne’s mer-
chants: these secret knowledges are the intelligence of Victoria Harbour. Their
stories form the site’s mythic identity. The second guiding principle is then a
commitment to recovering these neglected historical dimensions of the site. I
call it the Asterisk Principle because, as an ancient scholar, writing about po-
etry, explained, ‘The Asterisk is placed against [verses] which have been omitted
in order that what seems to be omitted may shine forth. For in the Greek language a star
is called aster.’ (Carter 2002: 7)
In practice-based research, ethically-sustainable invention responds, I would suggest,

to three conditions. It has to describe a forming situation. It has to articulate the
discursive and plastic intelligence of materials. And it has to establish the necessity
of design. There is, of course, a constant feedback between these three facets of
the inquiry. By “a forming situation” I mean to evoke both the attitude of the artist
and the social context in which the work (the project) emerges. To speak personally,
I would say that a right attitude is characterised by a sense of an unfulfilled relation.
The motivation of the artist is not to add another object to an already crowded
world. It is not a positive will to reproduce (albeit with new features) what already
exists. The impulse to make or invent something stems, rather, from a growing sen-
sation of silence, of loss, lack, incoherence or absence. The need to draw together
what has been scattered apart originates not in the will, but in the realm of eros; it
is the frustrated desire of connection that inspires the recreative act. Evidently, this
motivation originates outside the artist. The forming situation is, in this context, the
environment in which that impulse makes sense. That environment may take the
form of a commission (in which the client stands in for a dispersed desire of psychic
repair); it may take the form of a developing conversation leading to a collabora-

tion—which, in turn, by a kind of entrainment, creates a discursive momentum
leading to the realisation of new symbolic form.
That discursive momentum provides the interest impelling invention—and you
notice that, in this description, interest precedes invention rather than being a qual-
ity of the invention. It also produces collaboration. These human arrangements
are mirrored in the way materials are selected and allowed to “speak”. In general a
kind of weak reasoning, of the kind that Italian philosopher Gianni Vattimo recom-
mends, operates in these circumstances. It is necessary to suspend the usual forms of
classification—traditional definitions of roles, techniques, functions and outcomes
need to be set aside, and a kind of “what if ”, anything-goes mode of speculation
encouraged. The same applies to materials, whether they are documents, images,
sites, animate bodies or the situation itself. Various poetic techniques of combina-
tion are tried out: principles of homology, convergence, and mere coincidence are
explored. Attention is paid to the overlooked or marginal, the material supplement
that semiotic convention discards. I refer to this poetic process as mythopoetic be-
cause it understands invention not as conjuring up ex nihilo something new but as
an act of finding ‘that presupposes its existence somewhere, implicitly or explicitly,
scattered or in a mass’.8 As Giambattista Vico argued, invention or poiesis involves
not only ingenuity (or wit) and imagination, but recollection. In my view, one of
the primary functions of creative research is to study, document and valorise these
periods in which the usual logic of combination is suspended. Like Jeremy Bentham,
Sigmund Freud was given to describing ideas in topographical terms. The period
preliminary to dreaming, he said, was like a country whose terrain is characterised by
a dense network of paths or unconscious wishes. The beginning of the dream proc-
ess, which occurs when the preconscious is aroused, is ‘a simultaneous exploring of
one path and another, a swinging excitation now this way and now that, until at last
[the dream-wish] accumulates in the direction that is most opportune’ (Freud 1960:
576). Something similar describes the discourse—the back-and-forth—of invention.
And it is precisely this exercise or gymnastic that ensures the validity, interest and
ethical sustainability, of the path at length taken.
The third condition characterising ethical invention—the necessity of design— is,
from the point of view of the artist engaged in industry partnerships of one kind
or another, perhaps the issue of primary significance. Should something be made at
all? In a constitutionally inventive culture—whose demand for change and growth
is locally instantiated in the forming situation—simple inaction is not feasible: even
the plan not to make something represents a design on the future, and it is a heritage
myth to suppose that the past is preserved in this way. In reality, all that is preserved
in this way is a myth of the past as past, rather than as the locus of the spirit of in-
vention that we follow even as we transform it. The client is, or should be, exercised
by the question of the necessity of design quite as much as the contracting artist.
There is no doubt that many government-promoted, publicly-funded infrastructure
briefs are raised in an inappropriate fashion, both too late in the design process and
too early: instead of factoring in a process of exploring one path then another, they
attempt to lay down preemptively the rules for the management of the project, as if
its parameters required no further investigation. This attempt to mandate the con-
ditions of engagement effectively removes from the artist—or architect, designer
or any other collaborative consortium—the discretionary capacity to engage criti-
cally, creatively and fundamentally with the project’s terms of reference. The alea-
tory quality of design research—which might allow invention to occur, and entirely
heterogeneous symbolic, environmental and material configurations to emerge—is
prohibited. It is this ignorance, or suspicion, of the social function of invention, the
role its aleatory processes play in determining the necessity of design, that explain
the double bind in which public artists so frequently find themselves—in which the
client simultaneously demands something new and something that is not new that,
despite appearances, changes nothing.
In making Nearamnew at Federation Square in Melbourne, we confronted all of the
three conditions I have discussed: a forming situation; the intelligence of materials
and the necessity of design.9 The forming situation was obviously Lab architecture
studio’s commission to build Federation Square, a commission which was the vis-
ible tip of a political, cultural and civic iceberg, whose contours have yet to be fully
described. My invitation to enter into a dialogue about the role public art might
play was uniquely and inspiringly negative. That is, no brief had been raised, no
parameters set. The sole requirement laid down by the architects was that the ne-
cessity of any intervention be proved. From my perspective, the proposed design
was characterised by a lost relation. The architects drew parallels between the ap-
proach to design and the organisation of federal systems of political organisation,
but I knew from my research that local instances of federal organisation existed that
predated, surrounded and informed the appearance and history of the site. There
is strong evidence to show that neighbourhood of Federation Square was ground
all the clans forming the Kulin confederacy had ceded as part of what was, in ef-
fect, a federal covenant; granting power to the decisions made there, those signatory
to them guaranteed their own liberties. Also, the earliest plans for the site clearly
showed that, before the banks of the Yarra were built up, the system of billabongs,
periodically-flooding marshes and chains of ponds constituted a system of water
distribution that was federal in character. The public artwork was proposed initially
as an invention that would recover these forgotten spatial histories and inscribe them
into the present design.
The role that the intelligence of materials played can be succinctly indicated by
quoting this striking description of federal systems of government:
The federal system is not accurately symbolised by a neat layer cake of three
distinct and separate planes. A far more realistic symbol is that of the marble
cake. Wherever you slice through it you reveal an inseparable mixture of dif-
ferently coloured ingredients. There is no horizontal stratification. Vertical and
diagonal lines almost obliterate the horizontal ones, and in some places there
are unexpected whirls and imperceptible merging of colours, so that it is dif-
ficult to tell where one ends and the other begins. So it is with federal, state,
and local responsibilities in the chaotic marble cake of American government.

(Frenkel 1986: 62)
As I have documented elsewhere, the discovery of the Kimberley sandstone was

decisive in determining the character of the artwork we made. In a sense, it trans-
lated the rhetorical argument for the necessity of designing the plaza in this way
into a material possibility. I had made the rhetorical case for the proposed work—its
three scales corresponding to the three “ingredients” of federal government—and
you could see that the cobble whorl pattern, the distributed regional ground figures
and the letter fields produced environments that, while unpredictable, and scarcely
legible, from a linearist perspective, strangely incorporated neglected dimensions of
the human and physical environment, thus symbolising the potentiality of federally-
constituted societies to re-member themselves more inclusively. But this was nothing
without the intelligence of the materials, which, in turn, made possible the materi-
alisation of writing as lettering, and lettering as typography. It is hard to say if, in the
“invention lottery”, Nearamnew has been innovative and conventionally successful.
Apart from the crude indicators of visitor numbers and anecdotally-reported inter-
est, objective data are hard to come by. Perhaps this uncertainty is consistent with the
motivation of its invention, which was not to deliver a symbolic form representing
anything, but rather to construct a kind of psycho-physical flow chart whose aim is
to induce in those who use it a collective performance, one that reinscribes the po-
tential of democratically-constituted societies to create meeting places. In this sense
the measure of the interest the design arouses will be the continuing discovery or
invention of the place that it helps to induce.
I have tried in this chapter to show you that the practice of practice-based research
opens out onto the broadest questions about the kind of society and culture we es-
pouse and wish to inhabit and promote. Ethically-sustainable design is not a luxury
fitting that we can choose not to afford: it reflects and interprets the foundations
of our “art”. It does this because the criteria we use to define good design are not
borrowed from aesthetics, ecology, political theory or some notion of social repre-
sentativeness but are internal to the conduct of the research process—that strong
collaboration I spoke of before. That this appeal to what lies inside the forming
situation does not mean a retreat from the marketplace of educational, civic and
commercial exchange where values are decided is due to the fact that the place of
invention (and the place that inventions localise) is always in origin a social relation,
the renegotiation, renewal or repair of a contract with the other. It is a notable skill
of practice-based research to route these socially constitutive transactions through
the materiality of our lived time and space. In this sense, our local inventions always
resist generalisation. They are work in Henri Lefebvre’s sense, which is unique, rather
than products, which are repeatable. Lefebvre foresees a time when this distinction
will be overcome. It is in our interest to ensure that, if and when this happens, it is
the heterogeneity of work that is recognised as valuable. To provide criteria of evalu-
ation is one function of an ethics of invention.
(A version of this chapter was first published as a keynote address in Real Time Arts, online proceedings
of the Speculation and Innovation: Applying Practice Led Research in the Creative Industries Confer-
ence, Queensland University of Technology, Brisbane, http://www.speculation2005.qut.edu.au/index.
htm)
2
THE MAGIC IS IN HANDLING

Barbara Bolt
David Hockney begins his monograph Secret Knowledge: Rediscovering the Lost Techniques
of the Old Masters (2001) by recalling the viewing experience that inspired his research
for this book:
When I went to see the Ingres exhibition at the National Gallery in London
in January 1999, I was captivated by his very beautiful portrait drawings—un-
cannily ‘accurate’ about the features, yet drawn at what seemed to me to be an
unnaturally small scale. What made Ingres’s achievement in these drawings all
the more astounding was that the sitters were all strangers (it is much easier
to catch the likeness of someone you know well), and that the drawings were
drawn with great speed, most having been completed in a single day. Over the
years I have drawn many portraits and I know how much time it takes to draw
the way Ingres did. I was awestruck. ‘How had he done them?’ I asked myself.
(Hockney 2001: 21)
On first appearance this seems like a straight forward art historical enquiry. However
Hockney makes a very critical point, pertinent to the notion of practice-led research,
when he suggests that such observations and such questioning could only have been
made ‘by an artist, a mark-maker, who is not as far from practice, or from science,
as an art historian’ (Hockney 2001: 13). Here Hockney sets up a division that is not
entirely valid, since many art historians are also practitioners, but his point is a critical
one. It is the special kind of sight that Hockney gained through being a practitioner
that enabled him to offer both original and originary approaches and insights into
the drawings of Ingres. The specificity of Hockney’s experience as an artist and
particularly a drawer, fashioned the nature of the question, the methodology and the
types of realisations that emerged from the investigation.
Hockney’s research question was a very simple one. How had Ingres achieved
such uncannily accurate portraits at such a small scale in such a limited time frame?
From his own experience as a drawer, it did not seem possible that Ingres could
have achieved the accuracy demonstrated in these drawings through direct observa-
tion and free hand drawing. In setting out his enquiry, Hockney followed his hunch
that Ingres had in fact used a camera obscura to make these drawings. In order to
test this proposition, he devised a complex and idiosyncratic methodology that in-
volved research through drawing, an investigation into optical devices and their use
as drawing aids, and a visual analysis of drawings and paintings dating back to the
fourteenth century.
Hockney set about making drawings using a camera lucida and compared them
with drawings that had been achieved through what he terms “eyeballing” or unaid-
ed freehand drawing. He built himself a special drawing room based on the princi-
ples of the camera obscura and began a series of drawings-as-experiment. Through
these drawing experiments, he observed that not only could the use of this optical
device achieve uncanny accuracy, but more importantly, drawings made this way
were characterised by a particular quality of drawn line that distinguished them from
freehand drawing. The line was much surer and more confident than the “groping
lines” of a drawer struggling to “see” and record freehand. However, in this con-
fidence it lacked the struggle, the variation in line quality and indeterminacy of the
eyeballed drawing (compare my experiments in Figure 1).
Barbara Bolt, Drawings of Grant, (2005). Left drawing “eyeballed”, right drawing pro-
duced with the assistance of an optical device.
From these original investigations and drawing experiments, Hockney came to

question an unquestioned belief in the mimetic drawing brilliance of key artists
from the late fourteen hundreds to the nineteenth century. Against the generally
accepted belief that artists such as Raphael, Durer, Holbein, Vermeer and Ingres
possessed extraordinary drawing skills which they put to work in creating images of
astonishing verisimilitude, Hockney set forth a visual argument that from the early
fifteenth century Western artists had not just been aware of, but had relied on optics
to create “living projections”. He did not question the drawing ability of these art-
THE MAGIC IS IN HANDLING 29
ists, but rather suggested that it was the use of optical devices that enabled them to
draw and paint with such amazing verisimilitude that did and still does make people
gasp in awe. Thus, he set out to argue visually, that optical devices in combina-
tion with the development of perspective, enabled the “paradigm shift” in drawing
conventions that saw a movement from proto-realism to photographic illusionism
within a very narrow historical time period at the end of the fifteenth century and
beginning of the sixteenth century.
In this investigation, Hockney’s research methodology was idiosyncratic and his
research findings have been the subject of much debate and further experiment.
However, it is precisely the non standard nature of his methodology that highlights
the importance and relevance of his investigation for the development of meth-
odologies and approaches in practice-led research. Firstly, the initial question that
drove Hockney’s research arose out of a disjunction between his understanding of
the possibilities of drawing and the disbelief he experienced when viewing Ingres’
(1829) drawing of Madam Godinot. Secondly, Hockney’s hunch and subsequent
visual hypothesis about Ingres’ drawings was derived from his experience in using
projection devices and photographic technology in his work. Thirdly, his experience
as a drawer predicated the particular methodology he developed to test his obser-
vations in the laboratory of drawing. Fourthly, Hockney focussed on particularity,
rather than a generalisation to examine his proposition. Finally, and most important-
ly, Hockney’s visual argument demonstrates the double articulation between theory
and practice, whereby theory emerges from a reflexive practice at the same time that
practice is informed by theory. This double articulation is central to practice-led
research.
Whilst he is probably unaware of his contribution to the developing field of
creative arts research, Hockney’s investigation gives form to a particular and much
maligned aspect of practice as research. It introduces the possibility of the visual
argument and highlights the potential of the exegesis to do much more than explain,
describe or even contextualise practice. Through his visual argument, Hockney ena-
bles us (as it enabled him) to look at, and think about paintings and drawings from a
different perspective. It enables a shift in thought itself. Further, in the way Hockney
sets out the problem, sets up his argument and garners evidence to demonstrate his
proposition visually, he offers one way of thinking about the structure, methodolo-
gies and form that practice as research research may take. In particular his thesis
demonstrates the material nature of visual thinking.
Whether or not one agrees with the conclusions that Hockney makes in Secret
Knowledges (and there has been considerable criticism of the work), his insights dem-
onstrate a very specific sort of knowing, a knowing that arises through handling
materials in practice. This form of tacit knowledge provides a very specific way of
understanding the world, one that is grounded in material practice or (to borrow
Paul Carter’s term) “material thinking”.
The concept of material thinking offers us a way of considering the relations
that take place within the very process or tissue of making. In this conception, the
materials are not just passive objects to be used instrumentally by the artist, but
rather, the materials and processes of production have their own intelligence that
come into play in interaction with the artist’s creative intelligence. Here I want to
differentiate my own understanding of material thinking or what I have termed a
“material productivity” from Paul Carter’s (2004) explication of material thinking.
Whilst Carter acknowledges the creative intelligence of materials, he tends to negate
this intelligence by privileging the collaboration between artists and writers rather
than the collaboration between artists and materials. For Carter, this collaboration
‘is not simply a pragmatic response to increasingly complex working conditions; it is
what begins to happen wherever artists talk about what they are doing, in that simple
but enigmatic step, joining hand, eye and mind in a process of material thinking’
(Carter 2004: xiii) (my emphasis). I would agree with Carter that it is in the joining
of hand, eye and mind that material thinking occurs, but it is necessarily in relation
to the materials and processes of practice, rather than through the “talk”, that we
can understand the nature of material thinking. Words may allow us to articulate and
communicate the realisations that happen through material thinking, but as a mode
of thought, material thinking involves a particular responsiveness to or conjunction
with the intelligence of materials and processes in practice. Material thinking is the
logic of practice.
Hockney’s observations about Ingres’ drawings arose out of a sustained and sus-
taining drawing practice. His particular tacit knowledge came from the experience
of working with pencils, charcoals, paint, projections and the camera in realising an
image—and in particular in the struggle to render reality “out there” on to a two di-
mensional surface with a graphite pencil. Put simply, his engagement with the tools
and technologies of drawing practice produced its own kind of sight or logic.
Martin Heidegger terms the kind of “sight”, through which we come to know
how to draw, to paint, to dance or to write, circumspection. For Heidegger, it is
through circumspection that that the “new” emerges. In this way artists gain access
to the world, in what Emmanuel Levinas terms, an ‘original and an originary way’
(Levinas 1996: 19). “Originary” is a term rarely used, but one that seems particularly
pertinent to practice-led research. It is a way of understanding that derives from,
or originates in and of the thing in question. In this case, the “thing” in question is
practice. It is understanding that originates in and through practice.
In Being and Time (1966) Martin Heidegger sets out to examine the particular form
of knowledge that arises from our handling of materials and processes. Heidegger
argues that we do not come to “know” the world theoretically through contempla-
tive knowledge in the first instance. Rather, we come to know the world theoreti-
cally only after we have come to understand it through handling. Thus the new can
be seen to emerge in the involvement with materials, methods, tools and ideas of
practice. It is not just the representation of an already formed idea nor is it achieved
through conscious attempts to be original.
Despite the best efforts of the postmodern critique of originality, concepts such
as “the new” and “originality” still remain the driving force behind contemporary
art practice and creative arts research. In contemporary practice, this pre-occupation
has tended to take the form of conscious attempts on the part of the artist, to create
an event that shocks or puts the viewer in crisis. In creative arts research, the obses-
sion to create the new has found a particular discursive form. Thus, a central goal of
post graduate research is that students demonstrate how his/her research has made
an original contribution to knowledge in the particular research discipline. As I have
argued elsewhere (Bolt 2004), the quest for the new persists as a source of anxiety
and obsession in both contemporary art practice and also creative arts research.
I would suggest that that the quest for the new can be a misguided objective of
creative arts research that results in self conscious attempts at transgression in the
belief that this somehow will produce the new. However, we can not consciously
seek the new, since by definition the new can not be known in advance. Hockney did
not set out to find the new, but the new arrived to confront him. The “shock of the
new” is thus a particular understanding that is realised through our dealings with the
tools and materials of production and in our handling of ideas, rather than a self-
conscious attempt at transgression. This is material thinking.
From my argument so far, it is evident that I give pre-eminence to the material
practice of art. In place of the “technologisation” of thought, that has come to
characterise science as research, I have argued that “new” knowledge in creative arts
research can be seen to emerge in the involvement with materials, methods, tools
and ideas of practice. In this formulation, notes Don Ihde, a praxical engagement
with tools, materials and ideas becomes primary over the assumed theoretical-cog-
nitive engagement (Ihde 1979: 117). Through such dealings, our apprehension is
neither merely perceptual nor rational. Rather, such dealings, or handling reveals its
own kind of tacit knowledge.
Praxical knowledge takes a number of forms and it is this multiplicity that provides
creative arts research with its distinctive character. Whilst the artwork is imminently
articulate and eloquent in its own right, tacit knowing and the generative potential
of process have the potential to reveal new insights: both those insights that inform
and find a form in artworks and those that can be articulated in words. It is here
that the exegesis offers a critical role. Rather than just operating as an explanation
or contextualisation of the practice, the exegesis plays a critical and complementary
role in revealing the work of art.
In order to exemplify this dialogical relation between making and writing I return
to my own practice as a maker and writer. As an undergraduate, I spent a number
of years painting landscapes in and around Kalgoorlie in regional Western Australia.
I had been making landscape paintings before I went to live in Kalgoorlie, but here,
on the edge of the desert where temperatures are extreme and the sun’s glare frac-
tures form rather than revealing form, I was left inadequate to the task of rendering
this complex landscape in paint.
Initially, I tried to apply the rules of linear and aerial perspective to the problem,
but found they were useless. The harsh and blinding glare of the sun was so intense
that no form emerged. The horizon remained, but objects did not appear to get
smaller in the distance, nor did distant objects become more greyed out and dimin-
ish in sharpness and chiaroscuro in the distance. In fact, the distant horizon seemed
more defined and the colour was stronger than the foreground. As a consequence of
Barbara Bolt, Kalgoorlie Landscape, oil on ply, 1992
the reversal of the principles of aerial perspective, the background seemed to jump
over the foreground, collapsing space rather than creating deep space.
In the fuzziness of practice, out in the desert, the principles foundational to my art
education were no longer of much use to me. Here, the process of making a paint-
ing challenged my preconceived notions about landscape painting, linear and aerial
perspective and questioned my understanding of the assumed relationship between
light, form and knowledge. Light does not always shed light on the matter. Under
the harsh glare of the Australian sun, light fractured form rather than revealed it.
My failure to “realise” a painting according to pre-existing principles, and simulta-
neously the unraveling of my preconceived notions about the relation between light,
form and knowledge were enabled by a movement from logical rational thought to
material thinking. Handling revealed the limits of conceptual thinking. It took the
work elsewhere. This is evidenced in the trajectory that the paintings took. However,
what was as significant, was the movement in conceptual thought resulting from this
failure to realise a painting. Here, writing became the critical vehicle through which
to articulate and disseminate an alternative conception that emerged from this fail-
ure. Through the exegetic form, I was able to develop an argument for a performa-
tive understanding of art.
In the exegesis, particular situated and emergent knowledge has the potential to be
generalised so that it enters into dialogue with existing practical and theoretical para-
digms. While Hockney’s research arose from a very personal and intimate encounter
with a drawing by Ingres, the visual argument he developed offers a direct chal-
lenge to art historical interpretations of key artists from the late fourteen hundreds
through to the nineteenth century. Similarly, whilst my struggle to render form under
the glare of an Australian light was particular and probably relevant only to me, the
realisations generated by and through this encounter have offered an alternative
conception of the work of art. Thus, rather than operating as a solipsistic reflection
on one’s own practice, the particular situated knowledge that emerges through the
research process has the potential to be generalised so that it sets wobbling the exist-
ing paradigms operating in a discipline. In other words, through the vehicle of the
exegesis, practice becomes theory generating.
The task of the exegesis is not just to explain or contextualise practice, but rather
is to produce movement in thought itself. It is these “shocks to thought” that con-
stitute the work of art and, in conjunction with the artworks, it forms the material
of creative arts research. Such movement cannot be gained through contemplative
knowledge alone, but takes the form of concrete understandings which arise in our
dealings with ideas, tools and materials of practice. It is not the job of the artwork
to articulate these, no matter how articulate that artwork may be. Rather, the exegesis
provides a vehicle through which the work of art can find a discursive form. In this
way, as Nancy de Freitas (2002) argues, the exegesis provides an opportunity and a
forum to reconfigure theoretical positions.
So what are the implications of this argument for practice-led research and a prac-
tice-led pedagogy? Heidegger’s notion of handlability suggests an alternative teach-
ing pedagogy to that which is paradigmatic in universities. If handlability underpins
material thinking, as I have argued, then surely the way we teach must be rethought
to focus on the unique form of “sight” or circumspection that makes creative arts
research distinctive. If we are to begin with Heidegger’s premise that we come to
know the world theoretically only after we have come to understand it through han-
dling, then how do we structure programmes to give a voice to material thinking?
Theorising out of practice is, I would argue, a very different way of thinking than
applying theory to practice. How does one devise a pedagogical strategy that makes
“practical sense”? This question has become particularly critical at a time when art
education has become so driven by conceptual and thematic concerns and where
materials and processes are conceived instrumentally to be used in the service of an
idea, rather than as productive in their own right.
The context in which creative arts research as a mode of enquiry and the exegesis
as a form has emerged has resulted in the negation of material production. Paul
Carter is correct when he suggests that the rules of the interpretive game have
denied intellectual recognition of those elements of material thinking (Carter 2004:
xiii). Positivist scientific thinking has demanded observable, measurable and repeat-
able processes and methodologies; conceptualism has privileged the driving idea
and Visual Culture, driven by a Cultural Studies agenda, has emphasised the social
production and reception of art over material production. In the negation of the
specificities of practice, the potential for the exegesis to do the work of art has been
greatly underestimated and its validity in the research process has been (and still is),
the subject of much debate amongst educators and students. In the reaction against
the colonising influence of Cultural Studies on the Creative Arts, the privileged
position of practice has been re-asserted and has begun to be used as a justification
for promoting practice-only higher education degrees. In this thinking, art practice
in itself is research.
In his recent book Art Practice as Research (2005), Graeme Sullivan notes that for
those who argue that art making is research, the explanatory exegesis is redundant
(Sullivan 2005: 92). Whilst I have concerns with the descriptive and explanatory
exegesis, I would suggest that practice-only postgraduate research can disable prac-
tice-led research by confusing practice with praxical knowledge and severing the link
between the artwork and the work of art. It is my contention that it is art as a mode
of revealing and as a material productivity, not just the artwork that constitutes crea-
tive arts research. It is not, as Carter maintains, about ‘mastering the rhetorical game
of theorising what artists do’ (Carter 2004: xiii). Rather it is much more concerned
with articulating what has emerged or what has been realised through the process
of handling materials and ideas, and what this emergent knowledge brings to bear
on the discipline.
Praxical knowledge involves a reflexive knowing that imbricates and follows on
from handling. Further I would argue that this reflexivity forms the locus of prac-
tice-led research’s radical potential to effect movement. The task of the creative
exegesis is to extend on existing domains of knowledge through its reflection on
those shocking realisations that occur in practice. In the exegesis, the nature and
authority of the knowledge claims that flow from practice-led research are able to be
sustained beyond the particularity of a practice to contribute to the broader knowl-
edge economy. Rather than just operating as an explanation or contextualisation of
the practice, the exegesis plays a critical and complementary role in the work of art.
(A version of this chapter was first published in Real Time Arts, online proceedings of the Speculation and
Innovation: Applying Practice Led Research in the Creative Industries (SPIN) Conference, Queensland
University of Technology, Brisbane, http://www.speculation2005.qut.edu.au/index.htm)
3
HISTORY DOCUMENTS, ARTS REVEALS:
CREATIVE WRITING AS RESEARCH
Gaylene Perry
My doctoral thesis consisted of a novel entitled Water’s Edge, and an exegesis that
dealt with the nexus of the creative arts and higher research (Perry 2001). The main
relevance of the exegesis to Water’s Edge is that both components of the thesis were
written as part of the creative work-plus-exegesis model. I felt this model needed to
be further tested and discussed. A considerable part of my discussion centered on
the suggestion that creative work could be recognised as valid research within itself,
without necessarily requiring exegesis. My exegesis mostly addressed the artefact of
the creative work as being a possible site of research output, with minor focus on the
act of writing as itself being a site of research. Here, I continue that latter discussion
in order to explain how the processes of writing themselves, the studio enquiry, may
lead to knowledge that is not necessarily explicitly discernible on the surface of the
creative work. In this chapter, I identify examples of such moments in the writing
process of Water’s Edge.
I will begin with a simple summary of what I learned through my studio enquiry:
• In the act of creative writing, I gain personal empowerment that can effect
change in my life;
• My finished product of writing: what I call the novel, is one site of what I have
created, but not the only site; the rest of what I have created seems to lie just be-
yond or beside the novel, and for me, this is a series of autobiographical traces;
• This sense of multiplicity in my work causes me to question boundaries between

fictive and autobiographical generic practices;
• Even while I am treating autobiographical traces in my creative writing, the

empowerment that I gain appears to reside in the imaginative work that I do as a
writer. However, the term and the practice of imaginative work is applicable to
many genres of writing, not only the genres of fiction-writing.
From these findings, discovered via studio enquiry, I have moved outwards to con-
sider the implications of what I have learned for the field of community writing:
writing carried out by or within a group with a reconciliatory or redemptive or per-
haps expressive or cathartic purpose. I refer to the practice of scriptotherapy (Henke
2000: xii) and to contemporary theories of grief to explore some possible applica-
tions for community writing projects.
Fiction and Autobiography

My novel, Water’s Edge, has a fragmented island-like structure that resounds with its
recurrent imagery and themes. The main character, Serena, is a female midnight-to-
dawn radio announcer in her early thirties. She undertakes a radio station project
entailing her to write and present a fictional life of one of her ancestors, a woman
who emigrated from Scotland’s Isle of Skye in 1854. At the same time, she learns
that she has a sister who at birth was adopted out of the family but is now to re-enter
the scene. The fictional life of the ancestor is moulded by present-day events. Via
writing, as Serena fills a red journal with the developing story of mothers, daughters,
sisters, and through displacement, she discovers a certain murderous anger that she
possesses and the power that accompanies that anger.
Water’s Edge is a work of fiction and nearly all of the details that I have just men-
tioned are fabricated. Yet I could write another synopsis consisting of a series of au-
tobiographical details that form another layer of the imaginative work of this novel.
The autobiographical details could include information such as that islands, like
lighthouses, form part of my own personal imagery in thought and in writing in-
terests. I trace this imagery to loneliness, to a struggle with growing up in isolated,
country town communities where I did not fit in and had few friends. In further in-
formation, I learn that I once worked in a radio station, as a copywriter rather than
an announcer like Serena, and I was intrigued by a female midnight-to-dawn an-
nouncer of my own age. As a young adult, I learned that I had a half-brother who
had been relinquished for adoption by my mother before she was married, a brother
who re-entered our lives, as we re-entered his life. Also I have ancestors from the
Isle of Skye, When I started writing Water’s Edge, I knew little about them. My fam-
ily had a portrait of a woman whom family members said came from Skye, but one
of the first things I learned as I began my research, was that she actually came from
the village of Glenelg on the mainland of Scotland, the traditional crossing point to
Skye. Another set of ancestors altogether, were the ones from Skye. At a later point
I did discover that the mother of the woman in the portrait had originated from
Skye, so maybe the woman in the portrait aligned herself with the island, explaining
how the story of the Skye connection passed down through the family as lore. It is
the only sector of the family’s ancestry that truly interests me, one strand of lineage
going back through my mother and her father and his mother and her father and
eventually his mother, who was the woman in the portrait. I suppose I have this in-
terest because artefacts belonging to that story have remained intact. My family still
has the portrait of the glaring, spirited-looking woman; we can stand by her grave in
the cemetery in the small town where my mother lives; and we still own the land that
CREATIVE WRITING AS RESEARCH 37
this ancestor purchased, The ruins of the house that she and her husband built are
still standing. She birthed eighteen children in that house.
I mention this layer of autobiographical details because I think what I learned
most from the act of writing this novel, was about the instability of boundaries be-
tween the fictive and the autobiographical, the singular experience and the collective,
the personal and the political.
To begin my work, I wrote about forty thousand words of Water’s Edge. I gave the
name Marian to the character of the ancestor, and she began to steal most of my
interest as a writer. I was granted a travel scholarship; I would go to Skye to carry
out archival research and fieldwork relating to Water’s Edge. I had never been to the
Isle of Skye except in my imagination, yet in those forty thousand words of writ-
ing, I, along with Serena, had created a vision of it. We had begun to write Skye and
to write Marian. I wanted to see whereabouts on Skye Marian came from: unlike
the real-life ancestor she was based on, this fictional Marian was from Skye, and I
needed to find an exact location for her. Much of the writing of Marian was presci-
ent, more than any other element of the novel, or so it seemed at the time. It was as
though Marian had always existed, this Marian, the Marian being written, the Marian
coming to life under my fingers in my drafts and under Serena’s fingers in her red
journal.
Keeping a Journal
I kept a journal as I travelled over Skye, and I consider this journal to be part of my
studio enquiry. At first I expected the journal to be a notebook for recording details
such as dates and place names and historical facts, but it actually became a creative
work in itself. The physical act of writing in that journal became part of the writing
of the novel, although few of the words from it can be found in the text of Water’s
Edge itself. Now when I read the journal, I am again struck by prescience, by the way
that as I travelled and wrote my journal entries, I seemed to strike something solid,
something with its own body and mind.
The omnipresent harshness of the Skye landscape brought me a realisation about
what I had already written. A grisly catalogue appears in Water’s Edge: a collective of
people in Serena’s family and ancestry who have died violent or unnatural deaths.
This catalogue essentially belongs to Serena’s mother, Pam. As I looked at the sheer
cliffs and ridges, saw the trees embattled by wind, and went to museums and learned
of Skye’s part in the bloody highland histories, I saw the aptness of the death cata-
logue. Pam is closely connected to her ancestry. It made sense for her to keep a list
of death lore close to mind. Pam is a talker rather than a writer, but certainly a sto-
ryteller. In the context of all that I learned through studio enquiry for Water’s Edge,
I wonder if Pam was not seeking reconciliation of her family history and of her
present-day actions as she told her family lore again and again, always in the same
words, like some ancient poem laced with mnemonic phrases.
One day I wrote in the Skye journal:
I am tracing the island’s interior. Glad to set the images into my blood. I feel
my way over the land. I hear hammering in the distance—renovation, con-

struction—yet it has a tribal tone. Heartbeat. (Perry 2001: 55)
I found that as I traveled I was not interested in traces of my own actual family an-
cestry. Rather, I was attuned to the traces of my fictional characters, of their origins,
of the places that rang with their familial memories.
On the north-east coast of Skye’s Trotternish Peninsula, I found my historical
character Marian’s home. The line between the sea and the sky was indiscernible. I felt
uncomfortably close to both of my main characters, Serena and Marian at that mo-
ment. I wanted to shake something off as though another skin had draped over me.
This is the section of Water’s Edge that emerged from that experience and my sub-
sequent writing about it in the Skye journal:
The Northern Lights glimmer, illuminating the sky and the sea and the satellite
islands to a deep blueness.
Her lungs open to the blue air of midnight and she draws up her arms, weighing,
for the blueness has a body like breathable water. She bends to touch the granite
lip of cliff, as blue as all else.
The sea floats, edges diffused.
A shadow seeps over her. She turns her head, and the shadow moves to the other
side.
She hears the voice sound over the water. A woman with a voice like Serena’s own
speaks in an old language.
Serena’s ancestor walks into her mind.
She has searched for the fleshly Marian, thinking she inches closer with the entries
written in the red journal. Here the light is enough to show a face but it is too dark
for reading and writing. And here is Marian.
Marian’s rough skirts swing at her calves. She is small, the top of her head coming
to Serena’s shoulders. She stands close, looks out to sea, still as mesmerised as her
twentieth century descendant. She is a girl of eighteen.
Serena lets Marian walk around her, touch her long hair that hangs free over her
shoulders and down her back. For a second, the smaller woman stands in front of
her and strokes her face. Marian’s fingers have the texture of water-smoothed rock.
The voice sounds until Serena wears it, absorbs it along with the blue light, content
to hear its resonance if she is not to understand the meaning of the words.
Marian’s face, and her eyes that are indigo rather than black, slip away into the
night.
Serena, her feet on familiar rock, is as light as a swimmer in a blood-warm sea.
(Perry 2001: 315-16)
This passage, both in the act of writing it and in the finished narrative, was a kind of cel-
ebration, a reconciliatory moment for Serena but also for me. Standing on our own feet,
celebrating imagination and its power to effect change in a person and that person’s life.
As I wrote of Serena writing Marian, constructing this ancestor who seemed to
come to life, at the same time that another woman, Serena’s sister, walks into her life,
I found a sense of something like healing in the story, in the process of writing. Yet
I am uncomfortable with this word, healing, as it suggests a mental image of a scar
closing over, becoming smooth, while what I learned as I wrote Water’s Edge is that
what is commonly called the past, does not have a sealed surface like a healed-over
scar, even when work is done to address the events and issues of the past. I wonder
if what Serena does through the act of writing in her red journal and what I at the
same time carried out in my studio enquiry, my writing of the novel, is more like
reaching out to touch a fleshly body, the body of real-life events (I say real-life, mean-
ing the “real-life” events existing in my fictional character’s life as she herself writes
her fiction in her red journal, and also the real-life events of my own life as I write
the drafts of Water’s Edge.) Is reconciling the word for what my character and I are do-
ing? Reaching out to physically touch emotions and troubles, sculpting and moulding
them, and yet at the same time to be moulded and sculpted by them?
Serena has few facts to guide her, so she fictionalises her story of Marian. And
what emerges is a very angry and brutal story of a woman whose two daughters die
one day. The story of the deaths is left open; it is implied that the younger daughter
kills the older one, and then the mother kills the younger one, probably accidentally,
not careful enough in her grief, precipitating a fatal accident. At the same time, Ser-
ena is living through difficult times as her sister Tash colonises their mother’s house.
The mother, never close to Serena, focuses all of her attention on Tash. Serena
remembers her saying, after watching a documentary about mothers who have mur-
dered their children, that she believed there was no mother who had not fantasised
about killing her children. When Serena writes her story of murderous anger, she
has a sense of emerging strength and power within herself. As Marian’s life fills the
pages of the journal, Serena feels stronger. This empowerment may be referred to
as a kind of healing, but not the kind that sweeps feelings under carpets: rather the
kind that is about living with hard scenarios.
Practice and Knowledge

As I wrote, I learned my own lessons. In my enquiry, I found the autobiographical
traces affecting me. I wrote Marian and her island. I wrote Serena and gave her my
own fascination with islands and I began to confront my own past loneliness and its
association with those islands. I started to recognise that I had angry feelings towards
my own mother, feelings that needed reconciling. As time went on, I softened in re-
gards to some of those feelings. I wrote, and through writing I felt change occurring;
I found that Serena realised the brutality of what she had written; the cruel story
that Marian had ended up with. I was caught up in this work. I wrote as I learned
and I learned as I wrote. But it was also in the gaps in my novel that I learned much
through writing. This is where ideas about redemption and reconciliation in the act
of writing become murkier, but also more exciting and challenging. The mother-
daughter issues involved in the writing of my novel can be spoken of in terms of
reconciliation, even if only within myself and the character, Serena. However, as I
have discussed above, my character and I were not seeking neat closure, there was
nevertheless a strong sense of reconciliation evident by the end of the novel. But in
other parts of my work, when even darker places were visited, any attempt at emo-
tional reconciliation would be more difficult and elusive.
Among several ghostly presences in Water’s Edge, there is Serena’s father. The first
the reader learns of him is on page fifteen, as Serena remembers the portrait of her
ancestor Marian:
Marian’s eyes are dark and wet even in the sepia tones beneath the thick curved
glass. Serena’s father also had dark eyes, and some people say that she looks
like her father, their gazes distant as they try to remember his face. Since his
death, nobody in the house has had dark eyes other than Serena. Now, here are
the dark holes of Marian’s irises. With Serena’s father’s eyes in mind, drowned
eyes, seals’ eyes, she thinks of Marian as a sea creature immersed in a deep oval
of water. (Perry 2001: 15)
Next, on page twenty-eight, the reader comes across Serena’s father again, in a flash-
back written from Serena’s mother, Pam’s point of view. Pam has just learned that
she is pregnant with her second child and wishes she could tell her husband, who
is away on a scuba diving assignment. But soon afterwards policemen come to her
door to inform her that her husband is missing, presumed dead, only his diver’s
watch recovered. At the time of this event, Serena is four. A little later, Serena has a
reverie of her father:
The loss of her father was obscured as though by eddies and whirlpools. She
knew only that he had been lost at sea in tropical waters. Sometimes she im-
agined his flesh bloomed into coral branches even though people said bodies
only lasted a day or so in the sea. She had no memory of the day he died. If
she concentrated she could call to mind a small number of fragments about
him: his arms warming her, her name spoken in his voice, a strong forefinger
pointing to a room encircled by a pale ring. She sensed him as a missing part, a
part taken before she knew it properly, a tail or a wing, a fleshy piece she could
barely remember but wished she could have kept. (Perry 2001: 56)
Serena’s father appears to be a minor part of Water’s Edge. It is evident that she misses
him even though she has few tangible memories of him, and that she likes to think
about him, perhaps to fantasise that he would be close to her, that she could iden-
tify with him, as she identified with the image of Marian in the portrait, particularly
when she does not feel close to her mother.
Here, my writing experience separates from the character of Serena and her fic-
tionalised writing experiences. The drowned father is my ghost, much more than he
is Serena’s. I could not keep this missing father out of Water’s Edge. I focused strongly
on relationships between mother and daughters, and found that through the act of
writing I could enact change. I could control a story. I could control characters. Like
Serena with her mother, I felt somewhat powerless in the face of my mother, and
with that in mind, I tried to exercise control and power through writing Water’s Edge.
But writing is more powerful even than that.
The missing-presumably-drowned father interests me in my consideration of the
power of writing and how it appeared to write back to me, not allowing too easy an
experience. I had not planned to put a father, and certainly not a drowned father, into
the scheme of the novel, but there he was. And while the writing of Water’s Edge pro-
gressed, I was also writing a paper that would become a chapter in my exegesis.
I had been reading Camera Lucida, by Roland Barthes (1993), and I wrote the fol-
lowing in response to my reading:
My reading of Camera Lucida is that it addresses far more than photographs. It

is a mediation on the death of Barthes’ mother and his ensuing grief. That sin-
gular expression of a death is what wounds me in this book, as Barthes writes
about the certain something in a particular photograph that wounds a particu-
lar spectator. (Perry 2001: 96)
Barthes (1993: 63) writes of how he sifted through photographs of his late mother,
planning to write a book about her. So Camera Lucida is a work with at least a double
life. It is a book that emerges from the efforts to write another book, yet in itself it
is a book about Barthes’ mother.
As Barthes reads references on Photography, he is frustrated that they fail to include
the photographs he loves (Barthes 1993: 7). This sense of the singular and the personal
is picked up again and again throughout the work and culminates in a statement about
how he grieves not for a generic figure of the mother, but for his own mother (Barthes
1993: 75). For me, Barthes’ thoughts on grief bring to mind a tragedy in my own family.
When I was twenty-three, my father and one of my brothers drowned. I was very close
to both of them; so close, perhaps, that I tended to grieve for them separately, with a
strong focus on one at a time. Following the tragedy, I tried to read self-help books about
grief, but I discarded them all, unfinished. I had no desire to read of the psychological
stages of grief or even about the grieving experiences of other individuals. The book
that I sought was about a butcher and his son who drowned in an irrigation channel.
Barthes discusses what he calls the “studium” and the “punctum” of photographs.
The studium is that in a photograph which is enjoyable in a generic sense: the cultural
or historical points of interest in a photograph, for example (Barthes 1993: 26). Of the
punctum, Barthes writes: ‘A photograph’s punctum is that accident which pricks me’
and ‘bruises’ (Barthes 1993: 27), is poignant to me.
Although Camera Lucida itself is not a photograph, I find what I will call a studium and
a punctum in its pages: the studium relates to its large themes of Photography/photog-
raphy and grief; the punctum is for me the moment when I am pricked and bruised by
Barthes’ singular sense of his grief; the way that suddenly my experience of this book
transforms and I appear to be reading a book about my own, singular sense of grief.
Suddenly I am reading the book that I had been searching for, the book about my father
the butcher and his son.
Writing as Searching
“Searching” is a term used in grief discourses for a bereaved person’s experience of
appearing to see the deceased person everywhere that the bereaved goes, especially
in the earliest stages of grief. The bereaved may catch sight of an actual person who
has similar gait or hair colour or height to the deceased. The bereaved then seems to
transform the person into an image of the deceased and may do a double-take before
realising their mistake. In some cases, there may not even be any resemblance to the
deceased.
Since the time in 1993 when I experienced my own family tragedy, I have found
myself writing on one topic and when this topic is submerged in any piece, I know
that I still write around its edges. The deaths of my father and brother have engulfed
my writing.
In Water’s Edge I wrote of a disappeared father. I also wrote extensively of water,
especially blue water, and its healing effects on Serena and also on the character of
Marian, another water-lover. The father’s character is placed peacefully in ‘bright wa-
ter’ (Perry 2001: 28), before he disappears in that same water. In real life, my own father
drowned in inland water, a dull brown irrigation channel. And his body was recovered
a few hours after he disappeared under that water. His brother identified the body; he
even described to me the peaceful expression on my father’s face.
I have a recurring fantasy that has become part of my consciousness since losing
my father. Just as the grief books predicted in their describing of the searching activity,
I see my father everywhere. I also expect to meet him one day, or at least that is how it
is in this recurring fantasy. The fantasy varies, but it is usually some variation on the
story that somehow he did not die that day; perhaps he emerged from the water, real-
ised that his son was gone, and took himself away, disappeared himself, out of grief.
Once he told me that if anything ever happened to one of his children, he would not
be able to go on living. I carry that thought, although I know that his brother saw him
dead, even if I did not. But that’s the thing: I did not see him with my own eyes. And
so, on streets, on trains, everywhere: I continue to see my father. In the early times of
grief, those searching experiences were very painful, like re-opening a wound. Now,
this fantasy that plays out that I will meet Dad on a street one day is comforting: it
reminds me that I carry my father with me, that death is not necessarily the end, in fact
not possibly the end, of a relationship with a significant other.
In the act of writing, I think that I carry out a process of searching. I search for
either my father or my brother or both as I write. I also search for other significant
people and events and feelings in my life. I write one surface of a narrative, and at the
same time I recognise another surface, another face, in the narrative’s forms, the nar-
rative’s body. The strangeness here, is that as I wrote Water’s Edge, I could feel other
layers to the book. I found myself looking for evidence of what else seemed to be
being written as I wrote this one surface of the novel.
I learned that my fiction was driven by a strong autobiographical impulse, and that
even when I wrote fiction, perhaps especially when I wrote fiction, I was writing as
truthfully as I possibly could. What made what I was writing fiction? The characters’
names were made up; no one character was exactly as I perceived any one person. Few
of the actual events in the story had occurred outside the pages of writing before me.
Or had they? I wrote those events: they happened as I wrote them. These characters
became real, and they were capable of effecting real-life change. In the first instance,
they could change me. The physical act of writing changed me; it changed some of my
perceptions about my own relationship with my mother, made me think about the past
and about blood genealogy and spiritual genealogy. Marian effected change in my life
as she effected change in the life of Serena. I started to think a great deal about what
this process of writing was teaching me about boundaries between disciplines such as
fiction and autobiography: where did the differences lie? Could a novel be called auto-
biographical even if the events in the novel could not be said to have physically taken
place except in that visceral moment of writing the events? In the process of writing
Water’s Edge, I felt myself being involved with what was happening. I felt that I lived it. I
felt, effectively, that I lived at least one, possibly several lifetimes as I wrote Water’s Edge.
And that taught me about writing as a life experience, one that is a type of research, a
practice that can yield results in addition to or even instead of a finished novel.
My studio enquiry and subsequent findings have led me to read life-writing dis-
courses and I find some of my experiences reflected there. For Shoshana Felman,
a life testimony ‘is not simply a testimony to a private life, but a point of conflation
between text and life, a textual testimony which can punctuate like an actual life’ (Fel-
man quoted in Henke 2000: xii). I read about the psychoanalytical practice of scrip-
totherapy: ‘the process of writing out and writing through traumatic experience in the
mode of therapeutic reenactment’ (Henke 2000: xii). But this concept of writing out
and writing through troubles me in the same way that the apparent neatness of the term
healing bothered me. I am not convinced that there is always an out or a through to be
reached.
In contemporary theories of grief, I find something more akin to what I have
learned through writing Water’s Edge. In Continuing Bonds: New Understandings of Grief
(Klass et al 1996), the authors discuss research findings suggesting that the concept
of “getting over” bereavement is outdated and that it is more accurate to think of
the bereaved as having continuing, interactive relationships with the deceased. In the
book’s conclusion, Phyllis R. Silverman and Steven L. Nickman summarise the col-
laborative work in Continuing Bonds by stating that:
Survivors hold the deceased in loving memory for long periods, often forever,
and that maintaining an inner representation of the deceased is normal rather
than abnormal. It also is more central to survivors’ experience than commonly
has been recognized. We suggest that these relationships can be described as
interactive, even though the other person is physically absent. (Silverman and
Steven in Klass et al 1996: 349)
Silverman and Nickman continue: ‘The term paradox seems to be the best way to
describe what we are dealing with: an irreconcilable tension’ (Klass et al 1996: 351). They
observe further: ‘The deceased are both present and not present at the same time. It
is possible to be bereft and not bereft simultaneously, to have a sense of continuity
and yet to know that nothing will ever be the same’ (Klass et al 1996: 351). In these
concepts, I recognise some of the issues that I grappled with in my studio enquiry. I
had a sense of reconciliation, but it was uneasy, particularly relating to my own issues
of grief. I see that there is a continuing relationship with the past, as one continues
to create relationships with the dead and yet not dead. One quite literal way of doing
this is through writing, but perhaps this work about the paradox of the dead and yet
not dead has more implications for writing and workshopping practices on a personal
and community level.
The Act of Writing as Revealing

As a writer, the words irreconcilable tension interest me greatly, but they also suggest pos-
sibilities for research and practice in the area of community writing programs. Such
programs may often be about reconciliation or redemption within a community. But
sometimes community writing may be about expression, or perhaps about a process
of catharsis, a recognition that sometimes the act of writing, itself, can be empower-
ing for individuals and communities, whether or not that writing leads to a product of
commercial or artistic merit. Thus, a type of reconciliation is reconciling the idea that some
matters may never be reconcilable. On a personal level, no amount of writing can bring my
father or brother back to life, but in writing, I find myself able to feel strong about this
fact and to find other ways to have ongoing relationships with them. In addition to this
idea of irreconcilable tension being palpable within certain acts of writing, I would like to
consider the role of imaginative work in writing by individuals or communities.
Notably, in Water’s Edge it is not only the writing, but particularly the fictionalising of
Marian’s life that gives Serena her power, her drive to move on with her life and her
relationships. In my own writing of Water’s Edge it was through fiction that I noticed
the significant gaps in my work, that I started to understand the power in myself that
could be found through the act of writing.
Novelist and essayist, Andrea Goldsmith has recently written about the power of
imaginative writing in redemption; her work specifically relates to the Holocaust.
Goldsmith writes: ‘Language used creatively can be dauntingly powerful. It can bol-
ster dictators and move entire nations. It can also produce mind-altering fiction and
poetry’ (Goldsmith 2002: 36). She adds, ‘fiction can open new corridors to under-
standing. Fiction dramatises and provides multiple perspectives’ (Goldsmith 2002:
36). For Goldsmith, ‘an imagination that knows its freedom—in either the writer or
the reader—can go anywhere’ (Goldsmith 2002: 36).
Goldmith’s point is about imaginative power and its enormous potential in healing.
Furthermore, she writes that fiction can ‘open new corridors to understanding. Fic-
tion dramatises and provides multiple perspectives’ (Goldsmith 2002: 36). Arguing
with writer Cynthia Ozick’s insistence on keeping facts intact in relation to the Holo-
caust, Goldsmith writes:
Cynthia Ozick believes that art should not tamper with the known facts of the
Holocaust. But what about the unknown issues? We are still grappling to under-
stand this mind-stretching event, and of all the human tools we have, it is the
unfettered imagination that is most likely to yield surprises. History documents

while art reveals. (Goldsmith 2002: 36)
I am taking some elements of Goldsmith’s work and using it along with the knowl-
edge I gained through my studio enquiry and applying that to a community workshop
scenario. I agree with Goldsmith about the extraordinary redemptive (and further,
reconciliatory) power of imaginative work. However, I do move away from Gold-
smith when she attributes this work exclusively to fictive genres such as prose fiction,
scriptwriting and poetry, as I think that contemporary developments in memoir and
related modes of creative non-fiction are very imaginative and that such genres are
elastic in their boundaries and styles and forms. There is much material about the
creativity involved in the construction of memory, to the point where it is almost a
cliché and recent narratives show that there are few boundaries in imagining what a
memoir can be.
I note that Goldsmith writes of her concern about a too-heavy reliance on survi-
vors’ memoirs in literary exploration of the Holocaust. One concern involves the
skills of the survivors writing memoirs. Goldsmith points out, as one example: ‘Ex-
treme passion is easily reduced to sentiment. The artistic skills that can match the hu-
man capacity for experience are rare indeed’ (Goldsmith 2002: 35). I want to respond
to this in several ways, to consider the suggestion in relation to community writing
projects. There is the possibility of writing workshops taking place in response to
trauma, or for other reasons such as bringing together a particular interest group (such
as women wishing to write about motherhood, or an isolated or rapidly changing
community wishing to tell their stories), with a multidisciplinary approach taken, and
some emphasis on the power of the imagination being significant in healing, redemp-
tion, reconciliation. Such groups could be taught skills in this area, and take part in
focused writing exercises and workshops relating to the notion of using the imagina-
tion. An outcome of such projects would not necessarily be publishable manuscripts
of the type to be expected from a professional writer. The point would be in the act
of writing, and sharing, and expression. Through work-shopping and with guidance
from professionals, it may be possible to achieve two things: a reconciliatory or em-
powering process through writing itself, and a product that is useful, firstly as a site of
shared material, and secondly as an outcome having artistic and commercial worth.
Another possibility could involve professional writers entering a particular commu-
nity or group, and through a process of facilitating storytelling and perhaps writing,
the professional could acts as a kind of interpreter, transcribing stories through a
consultative process.
From the act of writing, I learned first hand about the power of writing to effect
change on the writer’s self and on the wider community. I found that the act of
writing, the physical work of writing, and the resistance it seemed to give back, like
pressing hard on flesh, even entering flesh, scarring and cutting it, could be seen as a
healing process. Healing can occur through the simple act of writing something out of
oneself and burying it through practice, rather in living with events and attempting to
effect change in situations or attitudes that occur outside or beyond creative practice.
4
CUTTING CHOREOGRAPHY: BACK

AND FORTH BETWEEN 12 STAGES
AND 27 SECONDS
Dianne Reid
In choreographing for video, I am exploring mechanisms by which I can translate

the kinaesthetic intimacy of dance and the body to the screen—to make my sweat
bead on the surface of the screen. In doing so, I am drawing attention to the indi-
vidual experience, the emotional and psychological landscape “living” in the physical
landscape. The translation of these aesthetic and thematic concerns to the screen
context has directed my Masters research toward the technical and communicative
processes of collaboration in a filmmaking context, to the role of choreographer as
editor, and to montage as the site for the realisation of the choreographic vision.
In my journal notes, I asked the question: How do I make my sweat bead on the surface
of the TV screen? My primary concern in this research revolves around the sentiment
of the afore-mentioned personal reflection. I am concerned with the translation of
the kinaesthetic intimacy of dance and the body to the screen. In this chapter, I will
consider the three dance video artworks—The 12 stages of adventure, Back & Forth, and
27 seconds1—which are the primary sources driving and informing this research. As
an artistic researcher, it is through my practice that I am able to make tangible the
theoretical by making connections between the actual and the virtual, the objective
and the subjective, the technical and the creative, the body and the mind.
The title, Cutting Choreography—Back and Forth between 12 Stages and 27 Seconds, aims
to preface that this work deals with the “hands-on” nature of this project, with
particular concern for the relationship between the editing process and the choreo-
graphic process. The 12 stages of adventure provide the meta-narrative of my personal
journey from choreographer to dance video artist. Twelve sub-headings, drawn from
the structure and thematic content of this first dance video articulate the predomi-
nant issues arising from my research. These simultaneous narratives are designed
to reflect the non-linear nature of my “learning”—a concept which not only refers
specifically to the creative potential of editing, of cutting choreography, but also to
the interplay between past and present and of the “unlearning” of my role and proc-
esses as choreographer.
The “adventure” cycle could be regarded as a metaphor for human development
from birth to death; the ultimate rite of passage. The pattern could be likened to
models used in some spiritual or self-developmental contexts2 where an identifica-
tion of steps along the stages of an experience can assist in managing an experience,
in learning and personal development. While I use these 12 stages to chart my tech-
nical development chronologically from the first to the third artwork, I will also use
them as a framework to connect issues or creative themes “back and forth” across
the research journey.
1. The Place Where You Are - Something Is Missing

Maya Deren’s biographical statement, 1954 reads:
It was like finally finding the glove that fits … In motion pictures, I no longer
had to translate. Fortunately, this is the way my mind works, and I could move
directly from my imagination onto film. (Deren cited in Clark et al 1984: 57)
As an artist my practice of making art has been as much about finding the right form
through which to express myself, as it has been about the personal statements I have
made in my artworks. The search for the ultimate vehicle has been a process of ac-
cumulation rather than elimination. I have drawn on a range of art forms, positioned
myself in a range of perspectives from which to view and comment on the indi-
vidual physical and emotional condition. At this stage of my professional life I have
moved beyond the average career span for a dancer and am finding the traditional
dance models (with a focus on the young or emerging artist, the company structure,
and the theatrical context) no longer offer me the right vehicle for speaking about
and utilising my experiences as a mature artist. Nor does the small specialist dance
audience provide the challenge or feedback I’m looking for. I have also found that
my aesthetic attraction to the filmed image has continued to grow, encouraging me
to extend my skills in cinematic production and to focus my art making in this area.
Fellow dance filmmaker Tracie Mitchell connects our mutual interest in the dance
film form and its relationship to our career development as dance artists stating:
We’re venturing into new territory now because we’ve lived half of our lives,
and we’re preparing for a new part of our lives, and that’s what we’re bringing
to our work … that’s the weight of our questions now. (Mitchell cited in Reid
2001: 3)
Following Bazin’s observation that ‘a new subject matter demands new form’ (Bazin
1950-55: 160), I have moved into an exploration of the form of dance film as a
means to deal with the contemporary condition of the body and dance in the face of
the telecommunications revolution. Dance, as an art form needs to address questions
relating to its longevity, vocabulary, and accessibility to global audiences. The active
population of the dance community now also extends to include mature perform-
ers with many dancers continuing their craft beyond the parameters of the youthful
body, and in doing so addressing the changing nature of their physical bodies. 3 The
dance of the mature body must resolve the (so-called) physical limits of ageing—re-
duced mobility and stamina, changes to skin texture and pigmentation—with the
CUTTING CHOREOGRAPHY 49
expressive range and depth issuing from more years of experience. The challenge for
the mature dance artist is public as well as personal. As Van Itallie notes, coming to
terms with our own aging does not automatically alter public opinion: ‘Our society
denies death to the point of inconceivability, and views aging with the same shame
as defecation’ (Van Itallie 1994: 35). Yvonne Rainer also sees the issue of the body
as an object of desire as a contributing factor to the invisibility or dismissal of the
mature dancer. She suggests that we no longer find the aging body desirable because
it reminds us of death (Rainer 1994).
The mature dancer could be seen to provide a metaphor for the dance film form
itself. Both have the rich communicative potential that comes from the bringing
together of a range of experiences or creative processes. For the mature dancer this
richness comes from their extended performance history of communicating with
audiences, collaborators and with their own body over time. For the dance film,
the richness and diversity of two art forms coming together offers a multi-lingual
statement. Dance film also has the capacity to provide a space for the mature dance
voice, as it can access the detail of action and subtlety of expression of the solo
dancer. The large scale of the stage (larger, whole body actions and larger numbers
of dancers to fill the broader general space) to an extent denies the individual dancer
because proportionally an “audible” dance statement requires an amplification or ex-
aggeration of the body. This exaggeration threatens to caricature and consequently
objectify the dancer. On screen this dominant reading of dance can be challenged,
as new models of “dancer” and “dance” are made visible. The statement of power,
for example, that demands a virtuosic leap or lift on the stage can be conveyed on
screen with the direct point of a finger. I would argue that the finger point actually
communicates greater power, as it requires less physical effort to execute it. Dance
film has the potential to change the vocabulary and identity of dance, since as Rosen-
berg notes, ‘Dance for the camera has mirrored the upheaval in the culture and …
served as a site for the discussion of…the very nature of dance itself ’ (Rosenberg
2000: 276).
2. The Call
What we are pursuing at the deepest level when we respond to the Call is a
sense of our own completion. (Moody and Carroll 1998: 109)
I am “called” to filmmaking because of the intimacy available in the form, because

of its potential to connect the visual and the aural, and to connect the audience with
the individual character. Films offer the performing artist longevity by capturing and
preserving the intangible. It could be argued that this desire to preserve the mo-
ment and to capture and extend my life as a dance artist is related to that universal
question of mortality. However, all theological discussions aside, I have recognized
a synergy between the aesthetic of film and my personal aesthetic which falls into
three main areas. These are the temporal (a strong relationship to rhythm, sound,
and musicality); the personal (a concern with the individual’s story, connecting the
physical with the emotional or interior landscape); and the collaborative (between art
forms and practitioners).
The Temporal
I choreograph in a temporal sense. My movement phrases are predominantly driven
by the dynamics of rhythmic structures, and I form a creative work using patterns
and arrangements that most often reflect harmonic and rhythmic structures:
I think most of my movement is driven by a sense of rhythm and timing. It

is how I build all of my movements, a play on acceleration, deceleration, syn-
copation, and that is how I get my dynamic, from the shifts in timing…and
because this piece (27 seconds) is about that, it looks at the way time dis-
torts that, reflects those dynamics which reflect emotion. (Reid cited in Norris
2000: 11)
Choreographically, I choose to set up material that can offer multiple entry and exit
points and allow shifts in instrumentation either from body to body or across one
body. I try to shift the identity of the material in a way that can allude to many voices
through the dance of one multi-faceted individual.
In The 12 stages of adventure, for example, the “grab, search, discard, measure, sob,
ricochet, wait” phrase 4 contained movements which shifted mood and dynamic as
they traversed the instructions inferred by the words/text. Each word contains dy-
namic qualities of weight, pathway and time comparable to Laban’s categories of
movement qualities, but with added inferences of emotion or relationship (Barteni-
eff et al 1970). The “grab” is sudden and pulls into the body and hints at a reflex or
quick decision. “Search” is sustained, with the action travelling out in concert with
the body, implying someone/thing is missing. “Discard”, like Laban’s “thrust” is a di-
rect, strong, sudden movement with the added implication of a severed relationship.
“Measure” is the length of the journey between two points. “Sob” has the wring5
of the internal meeting the external: a percussive rhythm and a heavy, downward
pathway of travel. “Ricochet” snaps the speed, force, and direction of movement
outward and horizontally in a three-point echo from the body. “Wait” settles the fo-
cus back to the individual, to stillness and contemplation. The phrase itself is multi-
faceted and, in its diverse shifts of mood, when applied to one individual, represents
a longer period of time: a lifetime journey. With six versions (each dancer created
their own version) of this phrase and six bodies performing in several locations, I
had set up numerous permutations of the one formula.
This research, which marks my entry into the role of editor, has revealed my
choreographic form and a new role in which to perform. Devices such as repetition
and retrograde, manipulations of speed, and juxtapositions of text and image are
now available to me in the editing suite and, rather than having to demand extreme
virtuosity of my performers, I can perform these manipulations directly and with an
enormous range of specificity. I can have a direct link to my audience and, in a sense,
can elicit specific responses via my performance in the editing suite. With repetition
of image design or movement motifs, I aim to build a history, a familiarity between

performer and audience. With changes in speed I can affect the audience on a physi-
cal level (the viewer/listener’s heart rate will adjust to match the pulse of the move-
ment/sound) effecting a kinaesthetic response and inflecting the movement content
emotionally. The use of slow motion can encourage a slowed heart rate and a relaxed
state and receptivity in the viewer. This is further magnified as it reveals the actual
structure of movements or changes which either cannot be slowed down in actuality
or whose nature would be changed by a change in tempo of performance. Rendering
visible the hitherto unseen can solicit intimacy between the viewer and the subject
(Deren 1960: 62). I seek out multiple connections in movement in order to connect
with the variety of individuals that make up an audience.
The Personal
…Memory is embedded in our very act of seeing and movement seems to

be a particularly potent force in unlocking memory’s vivid detail. (Steinman
1986: 71)
All three of my dance works incorporate personal material from the performers
involved, with Back and Forth dealing directly with the idea of revealing the self
through the body, showing the vulnerabilities, detail and intimate space of the in-
dividual body, physically and psychologically. In sourcing my dancers’ stories, I am
informing my creative process as much as I am building content. My interest in their
stories is my interest in and value of them as individuals. The content of the stories
becomes a means to establish a relationship that can in turn create and communicate
a shared story. In revealing the personal dancer, I am revealing the “personal” in
the exchange between myself and my dancers, revealing myself by revealing what I
value. Viviana Sacchero elaborates the benefits of such exchanges:
We began with personal stories, which developed into phrases, which we com-
bined with other phrases … this allowed me to have an association with the
original source, as well as with the evolution of the movement throughout the
developmental process. I also found it helpful having various ways with which
to engage with the material. I remember the movement as being highly textur-
al. So, as well as executing the “steps”, I had feelings, emotions, stories, contact
with other dancers, text, and memories with which to engage. (Sacchero cited
in Reid 2001: 1)
In most cases, the stories sourced in the studio process are a mechanism for ac-
cessing subtlety and integrity of performance, although the images, emotions and
memories that then become connected to the movement do colour that movement
with a perceptible sub-text. For example, while a viewer of 12 Stages may not be able
to articulate Viviana’s childhood memory of following a road in an attempt to reach
the sun, the sense of infinite distance and vulnerability is visible in her walking. The
intimacy of film, and its familiarity as a storytelling vehicle, allows me to explore this
level of detail and subtlety in performance and to suggest personal narratives that
may not be accessible for a stage audience.
The Collaborative
My artistic practice is enriched by, and inseparable from my collaboration with oth-
ers. It is the social and communicative exchange of working with others, which stim-
ulates my creative process. The culture of dance practice deals with the concept of
community on a daily basis. The dance class is an interactive site where individuals
must negotiate the same space and time together. Even the solo dancer must find
collaboration between body parts, between body and mind, between their present
performance and the history of their body’s movement. This microcosm of col-
laboration extends out in layers in performance projects as it does in film projects,
extending from performer to performer, performer with choreographer, artistic per-
sonnel to technical personnel, distributors, critics and audience. Intrinsic to every
layer is communication—listening, contributing and working with a larger group’s
creative energy. The film project offers me the same potential to explore connections
with different individuals, to find the dynamic and communicative mechanisms of
that group which, like the choreographic process, is essentially a creative process.
The film itself, the distillation of the entire creative process of filmmaking, becomes,
for me, like my own body dancing—a single action or statement that is the “elixir”
of my entire lived and danced, history. Dance film also facilitates a collaboration
of art forms, a meeting of styles and narratives, which extends my choreographic
vocabulary.
3. The Response to “The Call”

The 12 Stages of Adventure, the first of my Masters artworks, represents the accumula-
tive stage of this artistic research. To examine and facilitate my choreographic shift
from the stage to the screen, I began with familiar terrain of developing material
with dancers in a rehearsal studio, and devoted a considerable amount of time6 to
examining my choreographic processes, my “belongings.” In this way, The 12 Stages
could be seen to represent the pre-production period for all three works.
The adventure film genre suggests both a structural and psychological framework.
It suggests a universal pattern of physical behaviour and emotional response, a com-
mon series of goals or landmarks charted by different individual routes. My choice
of this thematic starting point meant that I had to unpack my choreographic material
to define the common temporal arrival points (a plane through space, a part of the
body, a degree of effort) while building a diversity, a layering of potential alternate
routes to those points. My use of six dancers provided this diversity. By directing the
journey of the choreographed movement through different bodies, I could already
alter the route of the pathway without altering the material itself. It was possible to
build layers of material from one phrase or from one set of instructions. However,
the integrity of the overall journey on screen demands more attention to the in-
dividual dancer. The particularities of screen space—the narrow foreground, the
impact of the single body in frame, the intimacy of close-up, and the dance of the
moving camera—expose the detail of each dancer’s physical articulation and expres-
sive performance. To shift my work into screen space, I needed to explore processes
for developing an intimacy between the performer, the material, and the camera.
By working extensively with a video camera in rehearsal, I was able to explore the
relationship between the movement material and the screen space and let this “eye”
inform the direction of the choreography. At the same time, I was able to personal-
ize the camera, setting up a familiarity between it and the dancers. The dancers and
the camera shared the history of the movement, a body memory of how it felt to
create the movement, and to be seen performing the movement from a range of
perspectives.
To reveal the personal for the viewer, I explored mechanisms for creating an inti-
macy between the performers and the movement material. In the early rehearsals of
The 12 Stages, I set up particular improvisational structures and movement invention
scores that gave them ownership of the material. One series of choreographic tasks,
incorporating techniques drawn from my experiences of working with Lisa Nelson,7
concentrated on kinaesthetic memory. In one case I asked dancers to traverse a dif-
ficult pathway (a stairwell) with their eyes closed, constructing it incrementally by
rewinding the material in small sections before progressing. By eliminating sight, and
by using an accumulative process to build the pathway, the emphasis was placed on
the dancers’ kinaesthetic responses and recall. The sense of touch became primary,
with the dancers having to “see” through touch, and drawing an attention to their
relationship to that intimate space. Recalling movement that was unseen and that had
only been experienced through touch, gave the dancers’ movement a particular qual-
ity—one quite similar in quality to the recollection of a distant memory or dream.
In my choreographic process, I often incorporate text as a tool for generating
material with the dancers. Some of this text becomes incorporated in performance
(either spoken by the dancers or incorporated in the soundtrack), but the majority
of it functions as a device for finding particular rhythms and qualities in the move-
ment and to provide imagery and a shared history for the performers. In each of my
artworks each dancer has brought in a personal story of their own.
For 12 stages there were six stories (including my own) relating a past event that
had been an “adventure”. Back and Forth used a selection of personal stories that
recounted the events surrounding scars or trauma points on my body. 27 seconds
sourced nineteen accounts of events in which time distorted, where it seemed to
slow down or speed up. I included these unscripted personal accounts to imbue my
work with a sense of reality, to give it some documentary “truth” in that it contains
recollections of actual events in the participants’ own words:
Because most of the movement material was sourced from our own stories and
experiences, it was easier to re-access the “intention” of particular moments by
recalling the original story/memory. (Sacchero cited in Reid 2001: 1)
4. Meeting with the Mentor

I find that I meet with my mentor (that is, I learn significant things about myself and
about what I am trying to achieve) through my creative communication with others.
In a choreographic context, I am interested in facilitating a creative exchange with
my dancers, one which enriches my choreographic process and which can support
each dancer’s performance narrative.8 In a live performance context, my artistic vi-
sion is communicated with an audience fairly directly through my dancers, albeit with
their particular inflections on the choreographic language. In this dance film context
there is a third party involved in mediating the artistic vision—the camera. In this re-
search, my “need” has been to facilitate a creative and performative communication
between my dancers, the camera operator, the movement material, and myself. The
choreography of the camera becomes a facilitation of an interpersonal exchange.
In “choreographing” the camera, I am concerned with establishing a shared terrain
between camera (viewer) and dancer, an intimate relationship in which the emotional
and psychological impact of the kinaesthetic experience is revealed. This means that
the camera must not only participate in the movement spatially, rhythmically, dy-
namically, but it must understand the nature of its interpersonal relationship with
the dancer. Essentially, I am trying to imbue the camera with an identity, one which
is known to the dancer and which they are prepared to trust with their personal dis-
closure, with their ‘imperfections and frailties’ (Herbertson cited in Dyson 1994: 77).
Michelle Mahrer is in accord:
For me the camera is about getting the performers so used to it, so as to create
a very relaxed situation otherwise … there won’t be truth in the performer.
(Mahrer cited in Reid 2001: 3)
There needs to be a “play” between preparation and spontaneity from both dancer
and camera operator. The accidents that happen, that is the unplanned or unex-
pected moments which vanish with the rehearsal or the live performance, can be
captured on film. The tangibility of the filmed moment makes the shoot a creative
goldmine, combining the experimentation of the rehearsal room with the immediacy
of performance. What is required from camera operator and dancer is a trust and
confidence in themselves and each other to, ‘stay with a moment, and meet the needs
of a changing moment. Then, awkward, uncomfortable moments of vulnerabil-
ity and powerful moments of virtuosity become equally rich’ (Warshaw 1982). The
camera and the dancer, like contact improvisers, must survive a dance moment.9
I think an improvisational skill is certainly required, because only so much can

be captured, I think, through pre-planned ideas … the magic actually happens
through mistakes and surprises. (McGrath cited in Reid 2001: 2)
To layer the variables in the relationship between the dancers and the movement ma-
terial of The 12 Stages, I built shared variations of personal text and gesture, and of
tactile, visual, and emotional memory. To set up similar variables between the camera
and the dancer I had to relinquish control over the interaction, and allow the camera
and the dancer to make new choices in relation to one another, to react to changes
rather than to enact a prescribed event. In some cases, when operating the camera
myself, this meant disengaging my eye from the viewfinder and shifting its eye to
other parts of my body—embodying the view of the event. In other cases, my body
serviced the pathway of my vision, moving in and out of the floor, finding physical
solutions to maintaining the smooth point fix between dancer and lens/eye.
The use of camera in rehearsal encourages the dancers to consider alternate and
multiple views of their actions. They are, in a sense, made more vulnerable because
they must consider the practical issues (will I kick the camera?) and aesthetic issues
(the camera is focussed on my back but the action is in my leg). In the same way
that improvisational tasks set up multiple variables in order to disorientate or upset
control—and in doing so, access a level of spontaneity—the camera can serve to
stimulate a heightened, almost three-dimensional attention in the performer:
When you’re performing for a live audience sometimes you choose to alter
your gaze or change your point of focus … with your piece there were always
different angles which the camera was viewing us from so you always had to be
really mentally tuned into that. (McGrath cited in Reid 2001: 1)
5. Crossing a Threshold into a New World

The 12 stages of adventure was my first solo editing experience. This was the stage of
the process where I learnt the most about all other aspects of working in video—in
how I could improve the pre-production, the efficiency of the shoots, the quality of
the sound score. Between editing 12 Stages and editing Back & Forth, I volunteered
to shoot and edit other people’s work as much as possible as a means to hone those
skills and to become as familiar and confident with that equipment and technology
as I was with choreographing the body.
The movement is the continuous, unifying element for The 12 Stages. I was cutting
choreography—re-defining screen narrative through a kinaesthetic script and re-de-
fining the spatial and temporal constructions of my choreography through the cine-
matic tools of montage. I specifically used connections in colour and texture—white
backgrounds in long shots (open iris for washed out background on exterior shots,
and white cyclorama interiors) and the reds and purples of the dancers’ costumes in
closer shots—to assist the connections between places and persons.
My choices to use fast jump cuts or dissolves between shots were designed to sup-
port the rhythm of the overall narrative. The “supreme ordeal” section that is the cli-
max of the work employs many fast cuts between bodies, which accelerate until they
reach Natalie’s slow fall to death. The speed of the cuts heightens the impact and
urgency of the scene without altering the original dynamic and speed of the move-
ment. The use of slow motion and dissolve for Natalie’s fall further accelerates the
previous shots while signalling both a denouement and suggesting a loss of control
as a result of the preceding disorienting montage. In earlier sections, the longer dis-
solve serves to transport the viewer from one reality (in space and time) to another
with an eased pace that might suggest the sensation of dream or memory. The dis-
solve between Hayden’s hands and Natalie’s finger-measure “pours” the viewer not
only across place and person, but also across plane or dimension. Hayden’s hands
move toward us and frame Natalie’s fingers which also trace a sagittal pathway from
background to foreground, leading the movement toward the viewer and connect-
ing the actions as measurements of time and of space from subject to viewer. This
three-dimensionality is heightened by the juxtaposition of his frontal facing and her
side facing. At the same time, the dissolve shifts our eye from Hayden/character to
Natalie/movement, from centre to left of screen and back to centre, facilitating a
sense of a change of time (present to past). The temporal ambiguity of the work is
prefaced and then reiterated in the opening and closing journey up Viviana’s body,
the ascension inter-cut with other bodies. The repetition of this editing sequence is
used to signal a continuity that extends beyond this twelve-minute event, an open-
ended cycle that is, in its potential for repetition, a universal pattern.
6. Tests, Allies, Enemies

Dance, as a non-verbal bodily form, has been marginalised, “other-ed” to the privi-
leged signifying system of language. Daly sees the cultural marginalisation of the
nonverbal as deeply ingrained: ‘we cannot deny our words, but we can always deny
the body language with which we deliver them’ (Daly 1992: 247). The subject mat-
ter for The 12 Stages was form itself. I was trying to contextualize or language dance
through a connection to a semiotic structure. Is it that we can only read meaning in
a form if we can verbalise it? If we can establish a name for the dance film genre
will viewers be more willing to read the content? The dance film has tried on many
names, from Deren’s “cine-dance” or “choreocinema” to “dance for the camera”
or “dance on screen” and, most recently, “motion picture dance”. As Nascimento
notes, ‘this hybrid form is still looking for a room—or an identity—of its own’
(Nascimento 2000: 7).
Like Daly, I believe that although dance may not operate through normative codes
of communication and may not be expressible in words, it is still meaningful … we
can still “understand” it (Daly 1992: 245). There is, as Leslie Satin suggests, a kinaes-
thesia, in which:
The spectator completes the dance not only through the experience of intel-
lectual observation, or emotional or psychological identification, but through
the somatic, neuromuscular, dialogic response with the performer and the per-
formance. (Satin 1996: 135)
I do want the dance film viewer to connect with this kinaesthesia, but I also seem to
want the legitimisation of languaged feedback. If I can direct the viewer through the
verbal and the languaged, to the kinaesthetic, and if I can merge form and content
more directly, can I lead the viewer to a physical utterance? My task for my second
dance video became a desire for this convergence—a direct relationship between
form and content, between spectator and performer/author, between the languaged
exterior and the felt interior.
7. The Approach
I want to communicate with people and find common symbols, which you can
do by telling stories. (Wright 1999: 32)
The creative development of Back & Forth was done in collaboration with composer
Mark Lang in 7 sessions (20 hours) over a period of 3 months. My initial concept was
to create a microcosmic version of The 12 Stages journey, of the interior or emotional
journey through a single body. I was paring back (from 12 minutes to five or six min-
utes) and pulling in to the body (from exterior location and six dancers, to the body
as location and two dancers). I wanted to see if less could be more.
The autobiographical content and the choice to perform my own artistic subjec-
tivity in this work was a mechanism through which I could balance the relationship
between form and content. By inscribing both the form/structure of the work and
inscribing the performed narrative/content, I hoped to draw attention to both. I
sourced my own landscapes in terms of both physical presence on screen and per-
sonal, historical content. I mapped out a “trauma” journey, locating parts of my
body from head to foot, which were historically associated with specific accidents or
physical trauma, and a performance anecdote10 that linked my relationship with my
body as a performer. I took these ideas to Mark, along with a series of images and
ideas that had a personal potency for me. The image of a drop of water travelling
down the body provided both an aural concept as well as a visual anchor by which
the camera (and viewer) could navigate the otherwise disorienting landscape of the
body in close-up.
The approach to Back & Forth was to emphasise the editing. All the choreography
was determined by the creative collaboration of the soundscape. Not only did it
predetermine the picture editing structure temporally but also it provided the spatial
and visual parameters for each shot. Temporally, the musical structure works in three
main sections—the opening text (which I storyboarded word for word and pre-
shoot to enable real lip syncing); the rhythmic variation (suggesting a move in toward
the body, to the kinaesthetic dialogue); and the drone with words variation (suggest-
ing a shift that has moved beyond the proximal to the experiential). These sections
signalled the visual shifts from the face to face, to the intimate (the introduction of
the physical dance vocabulary), to the interior (the lipstick camera close up in which
the body as identity is surpassed by the body as experiential landscape). The final
return to a coda of the opening text resolves the structure musically and visually and
re-establishes equilibrium, coherence and identity.
8. The Supreme Ordeal
Here, watch me struggle with how I’m trying to deal with these issues and
maybe you’ll learn something from it and grow stronger. (Albright 1997)
Back and Forth is an autobiographical account of how my experiences have marked

and been marked by my physical body. I am using dance film to get personal—show
my scars, reveal my childhood, and speak directly. I am pointing to my specificity as
an individual to avoid generic classification as female or dancer. My dilemma is how
to draw attention to my body and dissuade a reading of the body as object:
Driven by a compulsion to fuse the outer body, which for women in patriarchy
is objectified into a “picture” through male desire, with the inner self (the act-
ing cognito-the intellect, the psyche), they enable themselves by enacting the
feminist axiom “the personal is political”. (Jones 1992: 30)
In order to fuse my outer body with my inner self, I have drawn on autobiographi-
cal incidents in which the inner self and the outer body collide, where a point on
or movement of my body references and reveals a specific emotional experience or
intellectual realisation. The movement content for the central phrase11 in Back &
Forth was extrapolated from stories connected to specific scars or points on my body
associated with accidents or trauma.
Back and Forth is also a direct reference to movement across frame, or movement
of the camera (referring to the movement of the viewer’s eye, and the shifting of
their attention, to what is more important at a particular moment). I wanted to fo-
cus the viewer on a deeper understanding of myself, the subject, one that at once
recognized my past experience and my journey to where I am in the present, and to
understand the connections between the physical and the emotional. By bringing the
camera in closer and closer to the body and almost de-personalising myself into a
textured landscape of skin over which something other travels, I sought to evoke the
kinaesthetic as well as the visual. Here Albright’s observations are instructive:
Although it is grounded in live human bodies … dance carries the contributing

possibility of being both very abstract and very literal. Some movements will
give an audience only vague physical sensations, while other movement ges-
tures have unmistakable meaning. Thus, dance can at once represent images
that cite known cultural icons, as well as present physical states whose mean-
ings are not so much visual as they are kinaesthetic. (Albright 1997: 142)
9. Reward
Freedom is created within the forms I practice to penetrate my boundaries as

an experimental dance artist. Freedom rises from the strategies I must invent
to surmount social, physical, professional, financial, and political constraints.

(Hay 1994: 27)
My strategies for shooting Back & Forth centred on an economic refinement of

my pre-production preparations and my resources, including equipment, venue and
personnel. Whereas The 12 Stages represents the accumulative stage of my creative
research, Back & Forth involved elimination, an editing and refining of my produc-
tion processes. Moreover, this paring back was a distillation of my knowledge and
experience of both cinematic and choreographic processes into a hybridised ap-
proach, where a new interaction and language could be explored between subject
and camera.
I approached the shoot as if facilitating an improvised performance, defining the
parameters and stabilising the context while encouraging open decision-making and
creative interaction—setting up prepared spontaneity. With the edit structure in
place, predetermined by the completed soundscape and detailed storyboarding of
the first minute, my shot list was specific and manageable. I had also selected an in-
door venue that offered a controlled environment.12 With two camera operators, Paul
Huntingford (previous collaborator)13 and Francis Treacey (University colleague)14
and multiple cameras we were able to catch more angles of the one movement event,
providing excellent matching for editing, while minimising the number of physical
“takes” necessary. I chose to work with them because, apart from liberating me from
the role of camera operation, both Paul and Francis are dance conversant and famil-
iar with my aesthetic. They also have a good eye for visual design within frame, are
experienced cinematographers, and are willing to participate physically:
I’m happy to be jumping on stage or being in the wings, or getting in the

roof and shooting down like Busby. I’ll do whatever it takes in that respect.
(Huntingford cited in Reid 2001: 6)
Fiona, as the only other performer (and only other member of the entire shoot en-
semble), also has the match of technical skill and improvisational and interpersonal
responsiveness that I see in my camera operators. My preparation with her included
a minimal number of rehearsals that divided the emphasis equally between preparing
movement material and practising with particular improvisational structures in rela-
tion to the camera. I informed the physical movement with visual information from
the storyboards, aural information from the completed soundtrack, and reflective
feedback through video playback of rehearsals. I also discussed the autobiographical
content and my overall artistic vision with her, inviting and empowering her creative
contribution.
My instructions for Paul and Francis, their movement phrases, were to both select
and follow a specific pathway across the dancer’s body, or to let the body enter and
exit the moving frame. In essence, their focus was on the juxtaposition between their
movement pathway and the dancer’s with an attention to both real space and frame
space. All four of us had to negotiate our bodies in concert within the stage space
(not move near leads, or kick the camera, and keep the other camera and performer
out of shot). We also had to be responsive to shifts in active and passive roles in the
duet of frame and body (the dancer reduces their movement to allow the camera to
travel across the body, or the camera reduces its movement to allow the dancer to
travel across frame):
The moving frame … can be used not only as a means of viewing action, but
under certain conditions, can become the action viewed. (Clark et al 1984:
96)
Using the moving camera in close up, I aimed to deconstruct vision in favour of
kinaesthesia. The close-tracking lipstick camera shots of the water droplet traversing
the landscape of my skin, follows the journey to maturity, a journey that has involved
battles of control. The camera journeys over scars and wrinkles that infer age, trau-
ma, exposure, lived embodied experience, and as Bromberg observes it becomes a
‘tool with which the human and corporeal can be magnified and revealed’ (Bromberg 2000: 27).
The moving camera at this close range exaggerates the kinetic effect and disorients
the viewer. The intimate proximity of the partners (camera and dancer) and the con-
centration on the skin, our largest sensory organ, again brings me to a comparison
with contact improvisation, where, ‘the basis is a constant bodily contact through a
shared, ever-shifting contact point or surface with a partner’ (Kaltenbrunner 1998:
10).
10. The Road Back

The clarity of structure and content I had set up with the soundscape and the shoot
made the editing of Back and Forth more a creative act than a technical one. Without
the preoccupation with form I was freed to explore my editing choices on the basis
of meaning. I let my technical skills support and facilitate my creativity in much the
same way as my dance technique opens (rather than dictates) my creative range in
physical improvisation. I had the support of the musical framework and the quality
and specificity of the shots in place, allowing me to do the “colouring in” of the
content, of how it reads. In this action my body becomes the fabric, which accord-
ing to Merleau-Ponty, ‘is the fabric into which all objects are woven, and it is, at least
in relation to the perceived world, the general instrument of my “comprehension”’
(Merleau-Ponty 1962: 235).
My film is intended to display and provoke sensuous experience (as opposed to
sensual, pleasure) by entering the intimate space of the body and traversing the skin,
the location of touch and sensation. As microscopic viewer, the openings and secre-
tions of the body become significant parts of the macro landscape, the site of heat,
moisture, and texture. I am blurring the boundary between the interior and exterior
of the body. However, by constantly “pulling away,” by cutting in glimpses of whole
body or recognisable feature (Fiona’s whole body, or eyes, costume features), I am
able to reconstruct identity out of the deconstructed body landscape. The drop of
water on the magnified skin surface places the viewer at this theoretically blurred
boundary. Largely comprised of water, the body’s interior is presented to the viewer
as the drop travels over the skin surface. The magnification of my scars, of the hairs,
pores, textures of my skin’s surface confronts the viewer to recognize the detail of
my lived experience which is the sum of inside and outside, of past and present.
Here Elizabeth Grosz’s observation is useful:
The body image is always slightly temporally out of step with the current state
of the subject’s body ... there seems to be a time lag in the perception and
registration of real changes in the body image. (Grosz 1994: 84)
By inscribing myself with a temporal identity, with a history, I am also disallowing my

objectification by the viewer. With history, I achieve substance rather than surface.
By illustrating my aging, I am giving my individual persona a temporal weight, and,
at the same time, alluding to the destructiveness of these imposed representations.
By dissolving between my eye and Fiona’s eye, my face and her face, I link us as
two temporal versions of the one self. With the close tracking of my skin’s marked
surface with a tear and the descent of the movement (as skin gives in to gravity), I
am bringing my past body into my present text which is, as Grosz notes, ‘almost as
if the skin itself served as a notebook, a reminder of what was not allowed to be
forgotten’ (Grosz 1994: 132).
11. Resurrection—Another Ordeal

In October 2000, after having completed the edit of Back & Forth, I set off for Perth
in Western Australia to choreograph a stage work for the West Australian Academy
of Performing Arts (W.A.A.P.A.). I was returning to live choreography from the
dance film context and had discovered new things about my spatial and temporal
creative processes. From accumulation and elimination, I had now reached illumina-
tion. It seemed, at this time, that this project could offer a reflective analysis of how
my choreographic processes had shifted, and could come full circle in considering
the general impact of dance film on the form, content and reception of live dance.
I decided to let my questions about form steer the content of the work. To deal
with this reconfiguring of space and to employ the creative potential I had discov-
ered in editing, I chose to focus on the idea of time itself, specifically a short period
of time, 27 Seconds. Inspired also by Twyker’s film Run, Lola, Run, the neo-narrative
for 27 Seconds is about revealing the simultaneous narratives possible within a single
event. I wanted to focus on the detail of an event and the ways in which it could ap-
pear differently and have different outcomes depending on how you were positioned
within it. Extending on the idea of accidents or events that change the course of
our lives, I was interested in the emotive landscape of events and the impact of life’s
collisions—the meeting of time and space—on our actions and reactions.
As the choreographic process of 27 Seconds unfolded, its resemblance of a live edit-
ing process became more explicit for me. My choreographic tasks became exercises
in transposing the techniques of post-production technology onto physical bodies.
If I use the metaphor directly, regarding the final piece as the edit program, the re-
wind15 phrase became the master shot into and around which I cut and pasted the
other choreographic material. With the potential to be performed forward and back-
ward, I divided the phrase at half a dozen points between which the material could
loop or jog,16 providing potential complex canons between dancers. I could further
complicate the sequencing and the consequent relationships between the dancers by
inserting other fragments of material17 at the same jog points. With nineteen dancers
in the piece, I had a larger palette or “bin of clips”18 to work with. To create these
clips, I needed to apply the spatial frame of the screen to the stage, creating live mise-
en-scene. By using depth of field, that is, positioning dancers in vertical relationship
(foreground and background), I was redefining the spatial frame of the stage. I se-
lected to divide the stage into smaller frames, layering a single body or body-part as
foreground frame, and multiple bodies and/or single whole body composition in
the background. In this way, I could play multiple shots throughout the stage space,
providing a single shot for each audience member depending on their placement
(as camera) in the auditorium.19 Then by manipulating the temporal sequencing of
the movement phrases between the dancers within a given shot, I could apply the
post-production effect of a dissolve or cross-fade. By having a significant movement
motif (the high side leg kick or handstand) or rhythmic pattern (the sustained pedal-
ling action of the hands while balancing curved over one leg) reappear from body
to body, I could shift the viewer’s focus between foreground and background in the
same fashion as a camera lens pulls focus. The layering of the looping phrases within
frame also creates a live dissolve, that is, the viewer perceives two sets of action (two
shots) at once as movement across the space connects temporally (dancers reaching
the same point in the sequence).
Fragments of the dancers’ texts20 informed both the movement material and the
soundscape, but also personalised the physical and aural landscape of the work for
them, inscribed their performances with a body of history:
It gives that movement a history. Even if you don’t use that material it has
given what you end up with a history … it gives the movement a bit of depth
for them as performers, and I think that resonates in the performance for the
audience. (Reid cited in Norris 2000)
12. Return with The Elixir
The challenge for the choreographer/filmmaker is to find the new form which
is inherent in bringing together two forms…. If the choreographer/filmmaker
taps into this film language and understands the properties of the technology
that penetrate so deeply into the web of the work, then the form of dance
film, regardless of style, can suspend disbelief. (Simondson 1995: 149)
During the course of this research, I have discovered numerous new intersections
between artistic, technological and socio-political pathways that point to exciting new
contexts for and outcomes from artistic practice. Specifically, I have discovered that
the role of editor matches my choreographic aesthetic and facilitates my next stage
of development as a choreographer, and artistic researcher. My identification and
refining of my skills in “cutting choreography” has, in turn, refined and redefined
my skills, creative processes, and communicative capacity in the context of creating
dance for the live stage. Furthermore, the tangibility of the dance film/video prod-
uct, the immediacy of global communications, and the development of new plat-
forms for creative exchange and critical discourse, provides me, the dance film artist,
with both a palpable history and a multifarious future. Bromberg suggests that:
As the movements of dancer and dance are inscribed in film or video, that
inscription becomes the artefact that endures over time. And by this process,
as choreographers, dancers and filmmakers, future generations will have access
to the marks we have made. (Bromberg 2000: 27)
Acknowledgements
I would like to acknowledge my collaborators: Julian Barnett, Natalie Cursio, Viviana
Sacchero, Hayden Priest, Cara Mitchell, Jacqueline Sherren, Paul Huntingford, Fran-
cis Treacey, Mark Lang, Fiona McGrath, Katie Moore, Lisa-Marie Walters, Molly
Tipping, Bec Reid, Megan Mazrick, Felicity Morgan, Susan Smith, Jennifer Birch-
Marston, Eleanor Jenkins, Rebecca May, Lucy Taylor, Sasha Bashir, Laura Mulherin,
Fanci Hitanaya, Vijay Nair, Nina Levy, Casey Organ, Kylie Hassan, Fushia Carlino,
Claire Granville and thanks to W.A.A.P.A., Danielle Micich, Deakin University, Colin
Savage, Kim Vincs and Plaza Theatre in Kyabram.
5
“SILENT” SPEECH
Annette Iggulden
Today the suggestion that a woman must be silent could be seen as a source of great
amusement, disbelief, anger or sorrow. However, for women who have internalised
the belief that this is the only acceptable position for them in society, the basic hu-
man right of free speech appears inaccessible. Born in England and growing up
in Australia in the 1950s, my experience of the Christian home and of society in
general was that “Little girls should be seen and not heard”. To use the spoken word
came at a huge price: a fear of crushing censure and a distrust of the meaning of
words. Silence became a safe place to inhabit. However, by drawing on the genera-
tive aspects of silence to work with words and images within the studio, I found an
alternative avenue for my voice and the means to articulate my experience of silence.
In this Chapter, I shall demonstrate how the combination of scholarly research with
studio practice required for my thesis, Women’s Silence: In the Space of Words and Images
(2002) provided insights into this phenomena and its ongoing impact on women and
their forms of speech. Furthermore, by documenting the outcomes from my studio
investigations, I shall show how the nature of these activities determined specific
outcomes that were unique to studio practice.
Traditionally, artists refer to their predecessors to see how their practices relate
to the genre in which they work. I am interested in how women can express the
silence in their lives by transforming words into images. This interest made me turn
to the art of medieval nuns and their work with words and images in illuminated
manuscripts; firstly, because of the scripto-visual developments in my own work,
and secondly, because these women “spoke” from within an enclosure of silence. I
made a comparative study of original illuminated manuscripts focussing mainly on
visual language and locating aspects of the work closest to my own art-practice: the
visual treatment of the space and inter-textual components of the page or folio. My
project did not include an examination of miniatures or historiated initials. Rather,
its aim was to identify and compare the use of other aesthetic devices available to
the medieval scribes/artists through which they might have interacted with the text.
I believe my understanding of visual language brings a different perspective to that
offered by scholars whose primary tool is the written language.
Historically, the speech and silence of women appears intricately intertwined with
and shaped by attitudes borne from various visual and verbal discourses about their
bodies. This became startlingly evident to me about one year into the making of the
work for my exhibition entitled A Fair and Virtuous Woman (1991). I believed that
silence and passivity held great strengths as contemplative states and forms of non-
violent protest. However, these paintings were a response to my anger and distress
at the painful realisation that the naturalisation of silence and passivity as feminine
virtues had left women profoundly vulnerable to the exercise of male power and
control. I looked at images such as Susannah and the Elders and The Rape of Lucretia,
represented over the centuries in painting, literature, poetry and drama. With very
few exceptions, these visual and verbal narratives fused the view of women as fair
and virtuous to passive sexual objects and silent victims. Susannah and Lucretia were
portrayed as highly literate and articulate women, yet their protesting voices were
effectively silenced because they were judged socially as body without voice: the
cultural image of “woman”.
Women artists have explored ways of expressing their own feminine desire, by
deflecting the objectifying male gaze and attempting to remove the limits that fix
the identity of woman and her expression. Scripto-visual art practice is one such
strategy (Meskimmon 1996: 100, Betterton 1996: 103). The term “scripto-visual” in
contemporary art was introduced through feminist art discourse in the late 1960s. It
refers broadly to women’s use of words and images within the visual field as a means
of feminist enquiry and critique into the function of language and sign systems that
affect the image we have of ourselves and of others (Parker and Pollock 1987: 5,
81, 310).
For example, the artists Jenny Holzer and Barbara Kruger have used words and
images as a conceptual means to subvert the language of patriarchy and to reveal the
impact of mass-media representations on the formation of gender identity within
capitalist societies. More recently they have extended this work to investigate the mu-
tually interactive relationship of words and images with the body (Weir 1998). Words
and images are also used in the paintings and mixed-media work of Nancy Spero to
draw attention to the historical silencing that violence against women has sustained
(Wally 1995). Another artist, Mary Kelly, juxtaposes words and images in her investi-
gations into the relationship of language, gender and psychoanalytic theory. She uses
this approach to examine her own life as a mother and a woman within patriarchal
society (Kelly 1996). I share her interest in the act of writing as a means of directing
the viewer’s eye away from the body of woman. This is not a rejection of the female
body, but rather creates ‘significance out of its absence’ (Kelly 1996: 125).
From this background, I began an intense enquiry and on-going dialogue between
both written and visual resources, between studio-practice and scholarly research.
Within the studio I used paint and drawing materials to reveal the nature of “proc-
ess” and explore how material practice might advance and challenge theory. My prin-
cipal consideration was to discover what occurred in the transition of words into
images in the act of copying texts. My studio investigations went hand in hand with
research into words and their meaning. Words come out of silence. I explored what
happens when one breaks that silence with the materiality of words. What happens
“SILENT” SPEECH 67
when colour, gesture, form, and an awareness of spaces in and around words, are
brought to bear on a system of language meant to reflect a clarity of ideas, order and
sense? I saw the interplay of these two systems of language providing me with an
opportunity to articulate silent spaces that lie between and within both the written
word and the visual image. I applied three orders of comparison to this study: theory
to practice; verbal to visual means in my studio work; and the relationship of these
two to the lives of medieval nuns and their work with words and images in the illumi-
nated manuscript. The inspiration of their work and my practical engagement with
scripto-visual processes in the studio provided a context within which to articulate
my feminist concerns about the historical silencing of women.
Within the Studio: Words as Images

My use of words in paintings was a consequence of the gradual unravelling of events
in my life and the development of my studio investigations: an outcome of my emo-
tional and conceptual responses to both. My work is never theory driven, although
theory has played its part in my understanding of the issues I address through my
art. In fact, no matter how much I might think I have conceptualised the work, the
idea is always secondary and often sacrificed to my intuitive response to working
with the materials: the “matter” of painting itself. My images of words evolve from
alphabetic writing, as did the work of medieval nuns in illuminated manuscripts.
However, my writing should not be considered as separate to my choice of materi-
als, colours, and size of the works for, as a painter, I respond to the materiality of
paint and all that visual language provides, as well as to the words that I write within
its visual space.
Progressively, I found myself “speaking” through writing directly onto the surface
or skin of the canvas. Initially, this script was written with punctuation and spaces
between the words, but positioned vertically as a veil to look through at the images
that lay behind. In exhibiting this work, titled What was that you said? (1997) I had
hoped to raise questions about how both words and images could reveal or conceal
meaning. I was aware that whether we are in the position of the speaker or the lis-
tener, the viewer or the viewed, the artist or the audience, we are equally susceptible
to manipulate or be manipulated by verbal and visual languages. However, I noticed
with some alarm that the viewers positioned themselves askew so that they could
read the vertical screen of words as a text. Such is the strong association of writing
to linear comprehension. This was at odds with my intention. Prioritised in this way,
the appearance of words pre-determined the expectation of a verbal or didactic
statement. Although I did not fully grasp what I was after at that time, it became
increasingly urgent that words had somehow to express my silent or unspoken voice
and my “invisible” female body.
I turned to the work of medieval nuns in the manuscripts to see how they had
handled this pictorial dilemma. I also hoped to gain some insight into whether their
solutions had any relationship to their silence and speech. I found that they had used
a technique of framing to delineate both the letters and their spaces. It was from
this that I developed my first form of “spatial script”. The cryptic appearance of
this writing gave me a freedom that I had never experienced in my paintings before.
The letters illegibility or “silence” allowed me to speak freely with words without
fear of censure and to use both verbal and visual languages as a singular channel for
my expression. My exhibition: A Weft of Words (1998) was my response to both the
oppressive and expressive power of language in my life. I painted, drew and sewed
these spaces-between-words onto different cloth or skins as emblematic inscriptions
on the female body.
I developed my second form of script in 1999, during my three-month period of
empirical research into illuminated manuscripts in England and Europe. It is impos-
sible for me to separate the advent of this writing from three overlapping circum-
stances in my life. These were my examination of the manuscripts and associated
literature, studio investigations into this material, and the impact of a personal expe-
rience I had shortly before leaving Australia, an experience that acted like a leaden
weight on my being during this time. Within a twenty-four hour period, I had lost a
child to suicide and my daughter had undergone an emergency Caesarean delivery
of a new grandchild. Each day after examining the manuscripts, I would return to
my room to document all the relevant information I had collected and work on small
expressive and investigative pieces on paper with coloured-inks. The urgency to ex-
press my grief and loss, and the joy of new life and love, brought about a change
in the image of my writing. My previous form of “spatial script” did not allow for
the speed I needed to bring speech, feeling and thought together, to write without
pause using words to move beyond words, to a silent space and image of felt knowl-
edge. A rapid and unbroken outpouring of intimate thoughts and feelings became
possible through minute illegible continuous-cursive writing. At the same time, the
communicative potency of the “unintelligible” or non-verbal image of hand-written
script was heightened through my daily viewing of manuscripts that were written in
languages foreign to me. Not being able to read the words as text had prioritised my
seeing the writing as a visual image: a record of cultural and individual traces that
re-embodied the invisible body and “silent” voice of the scribe/artist.
On my return from studying original illuminated manuscripts in overseas collec-
tions, I started for the first time, to copy texts. Using both methods of writing as
investigative and expressive means, I explored the processes involved in the act of
writing within the visual field of painting and drawing. I began by experimenting
with different mediums—cloth, glass, wax, oil paint and mixed media—to see which
would best suit this undertaking on practical, emotional and conceptual levels. I
found that the tightly stretched fabric of the canvas (like a taut skin) painted with
acrylic provided a surface and form on which I was happy to inscribe. When I was
travelling, I had worked with inks, gouache and collage in notebooks. I continued
to use inks and a variety of papers: tracing paper for its fragility, transparency and
smoothness and Finnish newsprint for its colour and softness. However, in the fi-
nal series on the alphabet, none of these materials could adequately express my
concerns. Because of its associations with my acquisition of language as a child, I
instinctively returned to materials that were representative to me of the Maternal
(fabric) and the Paternal (wood). This search for and experimentation with materials
was finally determined by my inner dictates. The relationship between sight, touch
and the mobility of materials to language, the maternal body and the embodiment of
the self is an interest of many women artists who seek to find a different aesthetics
using materials that might more closely express their concerns as women (Florence
and Foster 2000).
To identify the continuing significance of this practice to women I investigated
the acts of:
• writing as a form of drawing and speaking;
• copying the words of others;
• changing written texts into visual images;
• “imaging” the letters of the alphabet.
The Act of Writing: A Way of Speaking and Drawing

When I draw, the line carries a gesture that embodies and activates the visual space
that it inhabits causing the eye to follow its movements throughout that space. When
my gesture is taken into the act of writing, it crosses over the boundary of visual lan-
guage as line, to share its space with a verbal code of language-as-word. This merg-
ing produces a different meaning or narrative to that contained in their separated
states. When the written word co-inhabits the space of painting, it enters a dialogue
with all other visual components that share its space. This interaction with picto-
rial language affects both its image and its interpretation. Words can evoke similar
imagery to visual representations. However, the visual image of words differs vastly
from other forms of representation in painting because of its oral history. It is at
once spatial and temporal, discursive and figural. It is drawing and linguistic sign: an
image particularly associated with the voice. In 1999, I had the privilege of being the
guest of nuns of a silent religious order in a thirteenth century abbey in England.
This community of women, committed to lives of silence within religious enclosure,
left small folded notes in specifically appointed places so that they could communi-
cate informally with me and each other. The nuns called this silent and disembodied
form of speech their “Talking Notes”.
Despite the differences in words and images as codes of communication, the im-
age of writing contains many of the rhetorical and mimetic functions of drawing
and painting. The shared physical and visual qualities of flow and movement are
reflected in the historical origins of these words and those of writing and drawing
(Mitchell 1980: 548). Laura Kendrick notes that, ‘In Greek, the word graphein signi-
fied writing, drawing, and painting’ (Kendrick 1999: 235, ftn 22). As an artist, I bring
“visual thinking” and lateral and sensual pathways of expression to a code or system
of communication that prioritises rational and logical thought. As I draw the image
of words, I traverse the space between and within words and images: verbal and
non-verbal articulation.
Situated within the context of painting, the image of writing is subject to the in-
terpretative practice of visual art. It could be argued that its interpretation is solely
determined by the genre that predisposes its space and its reading, that is, verbal
communication in a book, or visual image in a painting. However, I would argue that
whilst these settings may pre-empt the expectations of the reader/viewer, it depends
primarily on the intention of the artist, who uses strategies of disjunction and dis-
placement precisely to challenge these preconceptions and to unsettle its reading.
Therefore, the act of writing as drawing carries the potential to critique both verbal
and visual systems of representation.
As a woman artist, this act has further significance to me. It engages me with the
didactic nature of written language, the oppressive aspects of symbolic law that ex-
cludes women’s voices, at the same time as it provides me with an alternative means
of speaking and of being seen and heard. My body is totally involved in processes of
seeing, saying, hearing and touching. I see my “silent” voice re-embodied as a texture
of speaking within a visual field. As a personal and expressive means of imaging the
feminine body and voice, I see this act of writing as an act of “becoming” and an
agent for psychic and social change.
The Act of Copying a Text: Re-reading and Re-Writing

In the footsteps of the medieval scriptrix, I set about to copy texts: the words of Law
given to, not chosen by the scribe who spoke the words of others with her pen. The
tools of her trade became the means for her to leave the evidence of her presence
and the image of words, the resonance of her voice. Because the daily ritual of sing-
ing or reciting the psalms was an important part of medieval nun’s lives, I decided
to copy the one hundred and fifty psalms that make up ‘The Book of Psalms’ in
the Bible. This series of paintings was named Psalmody: ‘Why—do they shut me out of
heaven? Did I sing—too loud?’ (after Emily Dickinson 1861).
I painted the cloth of the canvas black, reminiscent of the black habit that hid
the nun’s physical body and provided a space free from the censure of the male
gaze. This also enabled me to reverse the traditional page of writing from black on
white to white on black and to use silver ink to illuminate the meaning of the act of
re-inscription. I employed my technique of continuous cursive writing, not so dis-
similar to early medieval practice of continuous script and cognisant of their ritual
recitation of texts. This method permitted an uninterrupted momentum of body
movement, rhythmic flow of line, less conscious control of the words and evolving
overall image, allowing for an intuitive response and slippage of thought, feeling and
action. It also rendered the line of the letters as a silvery trace, an image of sound
weaving the fabric of the text. However, the words themselves are scarcely legible.
The “unintelligibility” of the words left a “silent”, non-verbal, visual image in its
wake. Its visual texture became a barrier that the eye could not penetrate, keeping
the viewer’s attention on the two-dimensional surface and the image of words: the
image of my voice.
I found that to follow a given script demanded not only a co-ordination of the
eye, hand and mind, but also an inevitable emotional reaction to the meaning of the
words as I read and wrote them. Some of the time my eyes seemed to float over the
surface of the words, scanning and writing them without much engagement. At oth-
er times, I was brought to an abrupt and involuntary stop and felt a need to re-read as
something resonated with meaning or struck an emotional chord. This always caused
Annette Iggulden, from the series Psalmody: ‘Why—do they shut Me out of Heaven? Did I sing—too
loud?’ (after Emily Dickinson, 1861) metallic ink & acrylic on canvas, 2000 (detail).
me to pause in the writing: to smile, be enthralled, moved, astounded, or/and to be

horrified—did this passage, or maybe just a combination of words, actually mean
what I thought it did? I soon realised how the processes of seeing the words, reading,
saying and writing them also required that I fragment the text. I had to repeat small
segments or phrases so as to hold them in my mind and record them accurately.
However, as I repeated these clusters of words (with my mouth, tongue, vocal cords
and breath), I was also conscious of hearing the sound of my voice, hearing it in my
mind or in saying the words out loud. This mixture of emotions and the experience
of hearing my enunciation of the words, seeing my hand, my line, recreating the text,
feeling the resistance of the surface respond to the pressure of my pen, involved my
entire being. As the person who had the responsibility of re-inscribing the text, this
involvement was mine alone. Although conscious of these sensations during the
execution of the work, their effects were not always apparent until its conclusion.
Unintentional errors were an on-going problem. As I noticed them, I had to stop
and consider what I had done wrong. Sometimes it was that I had unconsciously
missed a word or two, or unwittingly paraphrased what the author had said. The act
of copying made me very aware of the errors that may have surreptitiously crept
into the text, either because I had missed them in the intensity or desire to get the
work done, or I had chosen, on some level, not to recognise them. Errors, erasures
and interruptions proved to be both inevitable and meaningful, as they changed, no
matter how slightly, the visual dynamic, rhythm, intonation and thus the meaning of
the original text.
Mieke Bal suggests that repetitive re-writings offer the opportunity ‘to initiate
counter action, or to write back’ (Bal 1994: 298). As I made the paintings entitled
Shhh (2000), I realised that this was precisely what I was in the process of doing. As a
post-script to my work on the Psalms, I was attempting to re-address my past. After
my mother’s death I was sent photocopies of the notes she had used in her pastoral
work as a missionary in Pakistan in the 1960’s. These included direct quotations from
the Bible and her exegesis of the story, ‘The woman at the well’ (St John 4: 1-29). As
I copied the already thrice-copied words (the photocopy of her hand-written copy,
from the copy of “God’s words” in the Bible), the “positive” shapes formed by these
re-writings left an image suggestive of the female body in the “negative” spaces of
the paintings. I had unconsciously reasserted the memory of my mother into the
spaces of the words of Law that had been used to silence her.
From Written Text to Visual Image: Traversing the Spaces Between & Within
For this investigation, I moved from the words of Law to transcribe a contemporary
text on the discourse of love: Roland Barthes’ A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments (1978).
His poetic, self-reflexive dialogue on the agony and ecstasy experienced in the pur-
suit of love, resonated with the fresh images I had in my mind of the similarities
between the erotic language used by medieval women to express their spiritual desire
and that used between lovers. The denial of the senses by the “Brides of Christ”
who spoke from within religious enclosure, on one level, were replete or exceeded
through their performances of ecstatic utterance. However, their passionate female
desire for their “Groom” was manifest through alternating states of receptivity and
action. Barthes relates these changing states to our repetitious utterances, or writings
that affirm both the existences of love and our desire to breach the gap between
silence and speech, the self and the other. As Barthes manipulated his pain created
by the absence of the loved one to ‘make an entrance onto the stage of language’
(Barthes 1978: 16), I actively manipulate the pain of my silence to sustain my speech
through visual language.
In the months before I saw the Belgium exhibition “Wachten Op De Prins…”: Negen
Eeuwen Adellijk Damesstift Munsterbilzen, an exhibition based on the women from the
cloister where the Manuscript of Isidore of Seville had been produced (Mertens 2000),
I had worked on a series of paintings that I later discarded. I had been trying to
identify and somehow express a common ground that I felt that I shared with these
women of the past who had produced this particular scripto-visual work. I attempt-
ed to construct a “frame” reminiscent of a window or mirror through which to
reflect on the notion of freedom and enclosure. I had overlaid these paintings with
wax and inscribed on them as if on the wax tablets of old. However, I felt compelled
to cover the paintings with one overall colour, which overwhelmed the images and
made them redundant. Having struggled with these works for some months, I was
reluctant to put them aside until I understood what they had to teach me. For this
I had to be silent and to “listen” to the work itself. I realised that it was the colour
alone that was significant and which resonated with meaning.
On my return, I reclaimed that colour for I now understood its relevance to the
common ground I had been seeking. To the purity of the colour violet (associated
with the spirit), I added the density of warm reds, reflecting the earth-bound heavi-
ness of the body. Rare medieval manuscripts were also, at times, stained purple and
written on with gold, silver and various coloured pigments, to be presented as gifts
of the highest regard. This resonated with my desire to pay homage to these women
of the past and to celebrate the jouissance of poetic utterance. I entitled this new series
of paintings after the words of Hildegard of Bingen (1098-1179), Enunciation: ‘A
Feather on the Breath …’ (Flanagan 1989 Notes 12: 114).
I wrote/drew Barthes’ words using my two forms of writing, moving over the
painted surface and allowing the line and its emerging shape to reveal itself. When
starting a work, I neither know what images may arise nor the final image that the
painting itself will take. As the bronze and silver line moved over the surface of the
changing hue of the purple ground, so did my response to the shift of colour and
light. I rubbed back and reshaped the original text until the form and colour of the
fragments sat comfortably within the format of its pictorial space. This intuitive
pictorial transformation left residual traces of erasures and a form of calligram in
its wake, which, as Michel Foucault reminds us, ‘by its double function guarantees
capture, as neither discourse alone nor a pure drawing could do’ (Foucault 1983:
22). These images retain their tenuous link with both verbal and visual language,
for, although illegible as written language, they stem from alphabetic writing and its
associations with the spoken word. In the smaller paintings, my “spatial script” be-
came a dialogic overlay of Barthes’ words with my own. Performed in the mood of a
medieval pictorial gloss, this semi-transparent veil of script created an image through
which to engage and reflect in a double discourse on love.
This part of my research clarified how the particular nature of the text I copied
affected my journey back and forth from the printed black text on white paper from
a book to the word as visual image in my painting. The series of paintings, Psalmody:
‘Why—do they shut Me out of Heaven? Did I sing—too loud?’ (after Emily Dickinson
1861) was in response to my feelings about the Word as Law. I felt a strong need
to prevent the viewer’s eye from penetrating past the veil of words to the black
cloth that “clothed” the “skin” of the canvas, keeping their attention instead on the
rhythm and intonation of the voice alone. However, the openness of Barthes’ invita-
tion to use his thoughts ‘to be made free with, to be added to, subtracted from, and
passed on to others’ (Barthes 1978: 5) encouraged me to see this as a collaborative
enterprise, not so dissimilar to medieval manuscript production, but with greater
contemporary freedom. My response to this act of copying was affected as much by
the fact it was an open text, reflecting the non-fixity of subject positions and of writ-
ing as a poetic affirmation of love, as it was to my subjective response to colour and
the evolving image. The process of changing written text into a visual image were
innately tuned to my emotional and intellectual responses as a woman to the meaning
of the words, as well as the evolving field of colour line and form, and the tactility
and mobility of the “matter” of painting.
I would suggest that my experience is not unique, but rather the result of my im-
mersion in the creative process that engages with all levels of the artist’s being. The
intensity of focus required for this performance moved me into a space and experi-
ence of silence where material practice became the means of unifying mind, body
and spirit, in action. In blurring the boundaries between the conscious and uncon-
scious, this creative process allows the silenced utterance to be spoken.
My intuitive dialogue with visual and verbal languages has changed or added to
the meaning of the words. This raises the question; could not medieval nuns have
also intuitively subverted the dominant male language in response to the words they
copied, through their use of colour, lines, form and space?
Each of my paintings record the transition from verbal to visual language, and the
changes that took place in the history of their making. Far from being an illustra-
tion of a text, they are as much a mapping of visual space and of the time required
for their production as a tracing of the body and voice of the artist that made the
journey from word to image. This engagement left an excess in its wake which was
of a less conscious nature, an image produced from, but not the same as that created
by verbal or visual language alone, but by traversing the space between and within
words and images.
“Imaging” the Letters of the Alphabet: An Alternative Form of Speech

When I began thinking about the alphabet for this part of my research, memories of
early school years reasserted themselves: seeing and trying to remember the shapes
of the image of letters—the “A.B.C”. I remember endeavouring to fit the right sound
to the right shape, through repetition, and striving to get the lines of the letters
Annette Iggulden from the series Enunciation: ‘A Feather on the Breath …’ (after Hildegard of
Bingen, 1098 - 1179) metallic ink & acrylic on canvas, 2001.
(black on white) to follow what I saw on the blackboard, (white on black). The task
before me was to make the letters recognisable, but smaller than I instinctively would
draw them, and to keep the letters sitting on the lines drawn horizontally across the
paper, rather than dance unrestrainedly as what they were wont to do, seemingly of
their own accord. How well I can remember on finishing my work before the set
time, letting my line continue its journey into the appearance of a large duck stand-
ing astride the page and of then being promptly sent to the “dunces” seat. But how
proud I felt when, because I had “got it right” I was sent to “the top of the class”.
As if by magic, when copied correctly, the black marks on white paper came into
existence as letters, legible as sound and image.
Medieval artists constructed the letters of the alphabet from multiple abstract and
figurative forms, such as fish, birds, human figures and hybrid fantasy figures. These
gave structure to the letters. Their intention was to honour the Word, to illuminate
the meaning of God; who God was and what this meant to them. Today, I cannot
speak with such certainty. I could not “name” the presence as God, nor did I have
any desire to do so. In fact, it was important for me “to-not-name”. From 1911 to
1968 the artist Erté re-figured the letters of the alphabet into whimsical and seduc-
tive images of women (Barthes 1985: 104, 113). My shift away from representing the
literal female body and my difficulty with making the word “flesh” in contemporary
terms, returned my focus to the common ground shared historically by artists; the
creative process.
I wrapped lengths of timber in raw (un-primed) linen as the ground on which to
paint or write the letters that symbolised the heaviness or weightiness of the law, sof-
tened by the weave, warp and weft of the fabric. I positioned the pieces horizontally
so that the eye might travel along them as in a journey through time and space or a
visual equivalent to the act of reading. I began by using colour in the letters and their
spaces so that the image hovered on the border between verbal and visual imagery.
This approach resulted in a familiar but now inadequate image to express my desire.
I experienced such restlessness and anxiety that I took the pieces and drenched them
with water. With my brush loaded with ink, I obliterated the recognisable image of
letters. In my attempt to re-write the alphabet, the letters were left as fragments of
the alphabet or as painted ciphers. My overwhelming mixture of emotions, distress,
fear, rage mingled with sorrow and loss made me realise once again that this struggle
was from my experience of having been silenced because of my sex.
There is a violence that resides within the language of the Law: the language of
the Father. I had to overcome or negotiate the oppressive memories and feelings that
silenced me, before I could speak with my own voice, as a woman. I had to move
to a space of silence and a state of forgetfulness to reclaim my speech and actively
integrate thoughts and feelings through my reaction to the materials and disparate
pictorial elements. I could not achieve this integration by symbolic, rational means
but through creative practice. The colours I used were driven by an emotive and
aesthetic response of my body: eye, hand, head and heart. As thought appeared,
the touch of colour changed the thought. As I continued to lay one colour next to
another my attention became totally focussed on “visual thinking”, where rational-
ity plays no part in the problem solving process. My repetition of the alphabet then
became a continuous line of “silent” sound. As Amando Maggi so astutely observed
in relation to the monologues of Saint Maria Maddalena de’Pazzi and the work of
contemporary artist, Linda Montano: ‘Both of them speak to originate silence…. A
Litany is a speech with no silences that only articulates silence’ (Maggi 1997: 117).
In themselves, colour and gesture provide an “embodied” image of the letter, but
colour has its own inherent energy and affective power to evoke a multitude of feel-
ings associated with the senses, one of which is sound. Colour was used for letters
in the manuscript to announce the beginnings of passages to be recited out loud,
which, in a sense, introduced sound to the visual image of words. As I repeatedly
recited or chanted the sequence of letters in the alphabet, they became like Mantras.
I inscribed the rest of these works with my “spatial script” and placed them vertically
to be seen as rods reminiscent of authority, yet transformed to convey a free-fall of
sound. I named this series: “Silence” … In the Space of Words and Images.
The intensity of this performance returned me to the silent space of felt knowl-
edge that lay beyond words and the meaning of the word “alphabet”. The materials,
colours and my act of writing created an embodied pictorial field, as much of the
senses as of the mind and spirit. The alphabet, as a visual and verbal system, was de-
veloped over the centuries so that we might communicate thoughts and feelings. The
medieval scribal-artist revealed the visual co-dependency of the “positive” letters
of the alphabet to their “negative” spaces. Without this co-dependency, neither the
letters nor the spaces that bound them could exist. The structure of language would
collapse into glossolalia and meaningless without the support of silence: the evi-
dence of its co-dependency with utterance. Women have been symbolically placed
in the space of silence. However, they are not silence. By emphasising the “silent”
spaces in the visual structure of the letters of the alphabet and the female embodi-
ment of the word, an alternative way of seeing, reading and hearing women’s voices
might be heard.
When acknowledged as the unspoken excess of symbolic language, women’s “si-
lence”, speech and song may be different to that recognised by the Law and linear
systems of thinking. However, it can be understood when seen through “the glance”
of non-possession and in the act of reciprocal looking (Bal 1991, Bryson 1983).
Pollock writes that:
It marks the spot where women’s cultures appear unreadable according to the
dominant narratives of art, modernity and modernism, while to a different eye
that seeks beyond the visible for the index of other meanings, lives, traces of
other configurations of the subject and the body, the surface is rich in possibil-
ities for those desiring to decipher inscriptions of the feminine as dissidence,
difference, and heterogeneity. (Pollock 1994: 75)
In Conclusion
My studio investigations have shown how the creative practice of writing, copying
the words of others, changing words into images and “imaging” anew the letters
of the alphabet, can provide the artist with the means to express both personal and
political concerns. The development and form of the paintings was affected as much
by my position as a woman in western patriarchal society, as my response as an artist
to visual and verbal language. I believe my studio-research raises the possibility of a
deeper understanding of this practice by medieval and other contemporary women

artists. By “illuminating” some of the unseen, unspoken spaces within language,
women’s silence held between and within words and images, might be articulated.
The exhibited work would not have existed without the questions raised from
my brief encounter with, and examination of traces from the lives and work of a
handful of medieval scribal artists. In particular, my engagement with the work of
the eight women who wrote the Manuscript of Isidore of Seville: Sibilia, Vierwic,
Gerdrut, Walderat, Hadewic, Imgart, Uota and Cunegunt. I am extremely grateful to
these women and the opportunity to research their work.
My paintings and the discussion of other contemporary artists’ work have revealed
that taking up the pen or brush will always break the silence of “enclosure”. Other
women artists have used words and images to draw attention to the silencing of
women. I was unable to “speak” my silence when visual or verbal language remained
in their separated states. I could only articulate or sound it, verbally and visually,
when I merged both words and images. In seeing, saying, hearing and writing words,
I was able to transform them into a non-verbal image of colours, lines, form and
space that expressed my thoughts and feelings, my silence. My utterance from a posi-
tion within silence became visible through the mediation of “matter” and the illeg-
ibility of the word’s image.
In my discussion of the lives of medieval nuns, I posited the idea that historically,
women have accessed or created “silent” or alternatively audible languages that are
disembodied from the image of woman on which the prohibition of their speech
was based. I put forward the possibility that those medieval nuns re-embodied words
with their voices and articulated their silence through their creative performances
of male language. I supported this idea by describing how words were shaped and
sounded by my mouth and resounded with my own meaning, in my practice of re-
citing the words of others within the studio. Furthermore, I have established links
between verbal and visual performances of language by demonstrating how the art-
ist moves between both in the acts of writing, drawing, painting and copying texts.
I have suggested that as artists working with words and images in the illuminated
manuscript, medieval nuns had an avenue for this alternative mode of speech.
From my identification of, and experimentation with, the aesthetic means avail-
able to medieval scribal/artist in illuminated manuscripts, I have shown how it was
possible for the individual artist to engage with the text. I found this outcome of
the research exciting, but not surprising. Artists understand the qualities of visual
language. If through my studio practice, I had been able to recognize its power to
affect the reading of words, why not the medieval artist? This seems even more
likely when we consider how visual and verbal processes were integral components
of the medieval practice of reading illuminated manuscripts. On the one hand, I was
frustrated by my inability to understand the language of the text in the manuscripts.
On the other hand, I appreciated that this limitation heightened my awareness of the
subtle innuendoes of visual language in the manuscripts. From my studio investiga-
tions of copying the words of others, I have demonstrated how my responses as a
woman to particular texts affected the development and final form of the paintings.
By extension, I have suggested that medieval nuns could have done the same in the
manuscripts. In providing different examples of how they used visual language, new
ways of seeing and “hearing” the voices of these silent women of the past might be
possible. I am hopeful that my findings provide a stimulus for further research by
others into this little explored area.
I have drawn on both words and images as modes of communication to write and
to paint my experience of silence, and to compare it to the historical silencing of
women and its expression through visual language. The combination of studio re-
search with theory has advanced and challenged both forms of inquiry: the paintings
have developed from my dialogue between the two. Both words and images have
proven to contain strengths and limitations. The aims and outcomes of my practice
can be explained through the words of the exegesis. However, the non-verbal lan-
guage in the paintings confronts the viewer with a visual experience that expresses
the emotional and conceptual impact of its lived-experience.
By engaging in both verbal and visual processes, I have attempted to reveal the
“silent” spaces that lay within and between both languages. The act of changing
words into images within the studio has required that I traversed their visual and
temporal spaces. These spaces have been articulated through the use of visual lan-
guage, which recorded my response as a woman to the text. I remain fascinated at the
capacity of visual processes and material practice to reveal the unexpected and pro-
vide fresh insights into what otherwise might remain only sensed. My practice has
raised questions and attempted to provide at least partial answers that have preceded
and extended my theoretical speculation on the historical silencing of women and its
articulation through scripto-visual practice. The outcomes of my studio research do
not attempt to posit absolute truths, but to re-question and to raise hitherto unasked
questions. As a consequence, I hope to challenge so-called “truths” and suggest
new ways of looking for and hearing the voices of women who speak from within
silence.
6
CHAMBER: EXPERIENCING
MASCULINE IDENTITY THROUGH
DANCE IMPROVISATION
Shaun McLeod
Self-absorbed and with eyes closed, he reaches upward, outward, with no urgency, calmly gestur-
ing and shifting weight. His focus is internal, an indication or metaphor for the self-reflection that
motivates his measured movement; his fingers, hands and arms articulating the “searching” he is
engaged in. This is not an image of masculinity uncomfortable with itself. This is a man able to
“look inside”, to enter the chamber of the male psyche. The sound is of subterranean water with
the associative qualities of contained fluidity and depth. Yet this is not an immediate or forthright
image of masculinity. His self-absorption is delicate, never direct or bold. The man seems elusive or
slippery, unwilling to conform but unable to present himself fully.
Chamber—a dark, dense and almost claustrophobic work of dance theatre—con-

stituted the performance component of the Masters by research thesis aimed at
defining and extending my choreographic practice. The work was choreographed
for three mature and experienced male dancers, Simon Ellis, Martin Kwasner and
Jacob Lehrer, with the performances held over four nights during April 2002 at
Dancehouse (in the inner-Melbourne suburb of Carlton). Audiences were small but
seemed receptive. Aural and visual texture (as well as psychological intensity) was
provided by David Corbet’s sound scape and Cormac Lally and Christina Sheperd’s
video imagery. The combined effect was multi-layered and multi-dimensional but
with all elements reinforcing a singular aesthetic and intention. The structure of the
piece had been carefully crafted and pre-determined and the intentions of each sec-
tion specifically defined. Yet, the movement content itself was almost entirely impro-
vised. As such, the work functioned as a “structured improvisation” which explored
the synergies between formal choreography and improvisational practice.
The project began as a response to the complexities and pitfalls in trying to de-
fine, succinctly, masculine identity framed through examination of the links between
masculine subjectivity, embodiment and dance improvisation. This beginning was a
recognition made possible by feminist explorations of gender identity: that he idea
of masculinity has historically been assumed as the norm and is therefore unworthy
of attention has ironically largely rendered it invisible. The choreography itself was
derived from the experiences of the four men involved in the process—the three
dancers and myself as choreographer. Chamber was an attempt to present a small
moment of troubled masculinity as a metaphor for problematising what is otherwise

taken for granted.
As a practice/exegesis model, the research project in its entirety, was a kind of
marriage The union between my embodied understanding of dancing, and an intel-
lectual demand to contextualise dancing in a way that reached beyond the confines
of the dance studio, was often uncomfortable. But it was a coupling that extend-
ed and challenged me to act or think beyond the constraints each imposed on the
other. The combined result charts the interrelated philosophical and artistic proc-
esses through which the performance was produced. The outcome is a dual record,
danced and written, of an investigation into how dance might express and reveal
masculine subjectivity.
My original line of questioning in this project was an enquiry as to why so few
men pursue dance, or more specifically contemporary dance, as a form of physical
expression? Why don’t scores of other men dance, when I find it so rewarding and
enriching? What is it about dance that men find difficult to align with their sense of
themselves and the construction of their masculinity? In contemplating these issues
it became apparent that men’s distrust did not lie exclusively with dancing but with
the way men regard many embodied practices. Almost any unusual physical display
by a man is subject to scrutiny and viewed as suspicious. The problem, as I saw it,
was more fundamental, and lay not with dancing itself, but with the way men see
themselves and masculinity in general.
Part of my wanting to work with male dancers was simply to seek out the company
of like-minded men: men who were asking the same questions about what consti-
tutes positive communication amongst ourselves. Through this process, it became
apparent that the working questions should not be about why men do not dance,
but to find the positive perspective on the same issue. In other words what happens
when men do dance? How do we experience dance and identify ourselves through it?
And how can these perspectives be realised in choreography?
Men certainly experience questions such as these in many different ways. But self-
definition for men through experiential dimensions that require sensing and feeling,
and in other ways which are regarded as marginal to masculinity, remains restricted
and problematic. Laurence Goldstein summarises a trend:
If recent writings are any indication, the task of men’s studies is to recover
from history and from empirically-observed behaviours in the present day,
that sense of choice and variety in self definition that so many women have
embraced as a means of personal and social liberation. (Goldstein 1994: vii)
Chamber is the spirit of this observation. It is a plea for alternative expressions of

masculine embodiment by defining the subjective danced experiences of the men
involved, and alluding to the multiplicity of subjective experiences that all men ex-
perience.
EXPERIENCING MASCULINE IDENTITY THROUGH DANCE IMPROVISATION 83
Defining Masculinity
Attempts to define the term “masculinity” as a fixed and unproblematic reference
cannot be sustained under the intense scrutiny applied to it in relatively recent schol-
arship. Indeed, as Robert Connell points out, a key finding of recent sociological
research into masculinity is that there is no globally imprinted pattern or globally
understood definition of masculinity (Connell 2000: 10).1 Connell cites various mas-
culinities, conditional on factors such as culture, history, nationality, race, class and
traditions of gender construction. For example different cultures have at different
historical moments, allowed for very different levels of acceptability and participa-
tion in homosexual behaviour (Connell 2000: 10).
As feminists have been arguing, gender organisation is not a fixed entity. It is mu-
table and dynamic, not essentially dominated by human biology. A man does not need
to behave violently simply because he has the power to do so. For certain men to
be encouraged to behave aggressively, as they often are in many activities and social
interactions (for example sport) they need the support not simply of a biological re-
sponse, but of an entire cultural system which bolsters such behaviour. Men are not
born as aggressive entities, but some learn how to behave in this way by engaging in
an extremely complex interaction with social forces, institutions, peer-groups and so
on. Consequently masculinities are primarily defined in cultural arenas, not biological
ones (Connell 2000: 10-13).
However, in most cultures a dominant form of masculinity holds pre-eminence
over others. The cultural authority invested in this form creates a situation of domi-
nance and subordination within the masculine gender order:
In most of the situations that have been closely studied there is some hegem-
onic form of masculinity—the most honoured or desired ... The hegemonic
form need not be the most common form of masculinity, let alone the most
comfortable. Indeed, many men live in a state of some tension with, or dis-
tance from, the hegemonic masculinity of their culture or community. (Con-
nell 2000: 10-11)
In a patriarchal system, gender is presented as dichotomous, with masculinity de-

fined not so much by what it is, but by what it rejects or expels. Defining practices
that are excluded from hegemonic masculinity, that is, all other manifestations of
masculinity are consequently tainted by a symbolic association with femininity (Con-
nell 2000, Seidler 1989). In Western culture, hegemonic masculinity is relentlessly
represented by media image of men as the muscular hero; heterosexual, all-power-
ful, controlling, driven, and lacking any hint of self-doubt. But men do not live in a
world free of contradictions and self-doubt. The marginalisation of all other forms
of masculinity by the hegemonic form creates a continuing point of challenge for
many men as they attempt to live up to, or alternatively avoid the cultural impact
of the dominant form. Connell cites the example of a study on male body-builders
who would, in the pursuit of a muscular body and hyper-masculine identification
(heterosexually defined) often finance their physical regime by eliciting payment for
sex from homosexual men (Connell 2000: 13). This tension confirms the inherent
contradictions and the problematic qualities surrounding the notion of a fixed and
comfortable, all-encompassing masculinity and sexuality (Rutherford 1988: 22).
However, in situating masculinity as a culturally constructed order, Connell also
makes explicit the necessity to acknowledge the materiality of the body. The mascu-
line body cannot be defined as a passive object, which all men receive or experience
in the same way. Bodies are as diverse as are the ways in which men are able to use
them and these factors must have bearing on the ways in which men define their cul-
tural practices. But it is the emphasis on “practices” which seems crucial here rather
than on any presupposed “natural order” for what men’s bodies can or can’t do. All
practices, which are used to define gender constructions, refer to the body and its
workings rather than being determined by it. Thus, the ‘materiality of male bodies mat-
ters, not as a template for social masculinities, but as a referent for the configuration
of social practices defined as masculinity. Male bodies are what these practices refer
to, imply or address’ (Connell 2000: 59).
Masculinity and the Experiences of the Body
I would emphasize that, given the importance of body-reflexive practice in the

construction of gender, remaking of masculinities is necessarily a re-embodi-
ment. (Connell 2000: 66)
Bodies have agency and that agency is implicit in the ways in which men configure
and re-configure masculinity. But the patriarchal denial of the body in western socie-
ties has meant men have generally distanced themselves from ontological considera-
tions of the body but also from bodily practices and expressions, except in a strictly
defined and controlled way (Rutherford 1988: 26). As such it is acceptable for men
to play sport (as long as they don’t throw like girls) but it remains problematic for
men to dance, this being a “feminised” and therefore less worthy pursuit. Within
hegemonic masculinity, acceptable uses and understandings of men’s bodies remains
mechanistic; that is to say the body is used as an instrument of extension, valued for
what it can do or achieve and how it can be trained to maximise its capabilities. The
body is rarely felt or enjoyed and its sensations rarely attended to outside the param-
eters of sport, during sex or in situations of extreme need. It is not generally seen as
having a responsive or distinctive aspect. Emotion, residing as it does in the body, is
also suppressed. The object-body is in need of subjugation and according to
Elizabeth Grosz, this subjugation is accompanied by a ‘refusal to acknowledge the
distinctive complexities of organic bodies, the fact that bodies construct and in turn
are constructed by an interior, a psychical and a signifying view-point, a conscious-
ness or perspective’ (Grosz 1994: 8).
Hegemonic masculinity remains too restricted to easily allow within it, dance prac-
tices that reflect upon and utilise the experiences of the body. Indeed, masculine ex-
perience itself—the very idea of a distinctive realm of experience for men—remains
an area only vaguely defined, hidden behind a homogenising acceptance of “mas-
culinity”; a kind of unapprised code of silence regarding the differences in the ways
men live their lives. This notion states that all masculine experience is equivalent or
uniform, and that experience itself, with the notable exception of sexual experience, is
masculine experience. The term masculine becomes interchangeable with the term
universal (Seidler 1989: 47). Male subjectivity and the multiplicity of masculine ex-
periences have consequently been rendered invisible by their subsumption under the
comforting stasis of an ideal masculinity (Goldstein 1994, Middleton 1992).
As a consequence of this totalising practice, men have never adequately attempted
to detail the differences and intricacies of their experiences: experiences which might
indicate areas of difference, plurality, divergence and surprise. Masculine experience
has been regarded as a given or not regarded at all, but it is only recently that it has
been regarded as problematic. Grosz points to this omission:
Men have functioned as if they represented masculinity only incidentally or

only in moments of passion and sexual encounter, while the rest of the time
they are representatives of the human, the generic “person”. Thus what re-
mains unanalyzed, what men can have no distance on, is the mystery, the enig-
ma, the unspoken male body. (Grosz 1994: 98)
Clearly if men are to be free to pursue embodied practices outside the realm of the
acceptable then they must also attempt to free the body from its negative associa-
tions. Part of this task entails detailing what individual experiences men have of their
bodies, how they “live” their bodies. Where are the phenomenological reflections
on masculine embodiment, the nuances and subtleties, beyond the usual iconic or
heroic representations of men’s bodies? In order for men to discover their bodies
within an atmosphere of positive acceptance, men need to relate to their bodies
and identify its practices and its becomings as well as the sexual specificities these
entail. Grosz argues that if, ‘the mind is necessarily linked to, perhaps even a part of
the body and if bodies themselves are always sexually (and racially) distinct, incapa-
ble of being incorporated into a singular universal model, then the very forms that
subjectivity takes are not generalizable’ (Grosz 1994: 19). Thus men need to extract
specific experience from the haze of the universal by particularising the forms of
their subjectivity, and even more of a challenge, by manifesting this in an embodied
fashion. One embodied particularity of this project is dancing.
Masculinity and Chamber

Chamber articulates, performs, engages with and alludes to masculine experience as
problematic. In particular it gives body to the experiences of men, aligns men with
the body and identifies their bodily practices and artefacts. The work endeavours to
acknowledge Grosz’s point that:
a different type of body is produced in and through the different sexual and
cultural practices that men undertake. Part of the process of phallicising the
male body, of subordinating the rest of the body to the valorising function-
ing of the penis … involves the constitution of the sealed-up, impermeable

body.… A body that is permeable, that transmits in a circuit, that opens itself
up rather than seals itself off, that is prepared to respond as well as initiate, that
does not revile its masculinity … or virilize it … would involve a quite radical
rethinking of male sexual morphology. (Grosz 1994: 200-201)
Dance practices which centre on the experience of the body, are explicitly aimed
at “opening up the body”; making it responsive. As a gesture towards rethinking
or reformulating the male body, Chamber is therefore a questioning of the mascu-
line status quo and the phallocentric systems that govern and control the way men
express their physicality and subjectivity. It is not an attempt to illustrate a theory
applicable to all men or speak for all men. Chamber comes with a phenomenological
slant driven by the subjective particularities of the men dancing in it and by myself
as maker of it.
The other assumption pursued in Chamber is that subjectivity can be, and for men
needs to be, embodied. The phenomenological focus within the making of Chamber
was on ways in which subjectivity could be constituted corporeally— in dance or
movement. Credence has to be given to the life of the body, to functioning within
subjectivity and to the interaction between consciousness and physicality.
If we accept that men have not adequately articulated the experiences that give
shape to the nuances of masculinity, particularly with regard to the male body, then
dancing offers just that possibility. If we also accept that masculinity needs to be
reformulated and therefore (re)embodied in order for the hegemonic model to be
challenged, then the “feminised” pursuit of dancing offers a powerful opportunity
for this to happen. Dancing is necessarily embodied and requires that the dancer
“feel” the movement, not think it. It requires him to experience his body, not as
armament, but as intelligent, responsive and dynamic. An instrumental approach to
the dancing in a project such as this would be an anathema. All masculine dance can
be a challenge to a patriarchal economy but more powerfully so, if it can be done by
men who are fully aware of the political implications of what they are doing. Indeed,
it calls for a conscious political decision to do so; the political dimension cannot be
circumnavigated. If men who dance and choreograph insist on portraying men in
dance only as “strong” and “muscular”, analogous to the macho hero in movie mak-
ing, then they are failing to acknowledge the issue. If men in dance insist on making
male dancing “acceptable” by continually virilising their activity, then the act is one
of compliance to the patriarchal demands. Men will have failed to create a dynamic,
felt, specific and embodied practice to reconfigure masculinity into multitude ways
of moving, reflecting the multiple differences in men’s lives.
As the video image fades the three men stride into the space. they walk and turn, aware of each
other’s presence but tentative because of this. They begin to edge toward one another, then breaking
away to return to a walk. The skittishness fades as they reach towards each other, finally offering
a cheek to connect with another’s. They relax as the three of them connect cheek to cheek, a single
moving entity. their breathing softens as the release into the sensuality and kinaesthetic intention
of the “score”. They drop to the floor always seeking to stay connected cheek to cheek, but physical
necessity sometimes determining that they separate. Quickly they return to the point of connection.
the quality is gentle, tender even, despite the physical manoeuvring that the score requires. The har-
monium provides a warm backdrop to this supportive and cooperative image. Despite the faltering
start, they embody intimacy or trust in their connection.
Improvisation as Methodology
The icon or ideal of masculinity creates a situation of inadequacy or lack for many
men as they attempt to live up to the demands of the image but fail to do so. It was
this contradiction that I was also intent on capturing in the structure of Chamber.
The aim was to try to contain something slippery and difficult to define within a
fixed and, by association, masculine structure as a metaphorical exploration of this
contradiction. Consequently, Chamber was framed as a “structured improvisation”
in which the order of events was set and known, but the movement material within
each event (while operating within certain parameters) was changeable and indeter-
minate. The improvisation is reflective of the men’s search for a subjective dimen-
sion and an alternative sense of identity. The difficulties in moving spontaneously
without prior definition or certainty are representative of the struggle for masculine
identity. Within each man lies another realm of possibility, despite the fixed, stable
image they might present to the world. It is a gesture toward an alternative space
inside a familiar one, in which another less known kind of dancing might emerge.
This is the image of the chamber.
In response to these considerations, I chose to work with three male dancers
whom I felt would be prepared to invest emotionally, physically, intellectually and
creatively in the process.2 Their contributions made it possible for this work to
hinge on a subjective engagement with the creative parameters and for this concen-
tration to be maintained in performance.
Improvisation also allows for the dynamics, movement preferences, spatial un-
derstanding and other manifestations of the embodied subjectivity of each dancer
to be expressed in a relatively unfettered way (De Spain 1995). In an unstructured,
open-ended improvisation the need for a choreographer would seem to be obso-
lete.3 Yet even in a structured improvisation, the movement style and preferences
of the choreographer are de-emphasised and control over what the dancers do is
partially relinquished. The movement material itself also changes between perform-
ances. Within this context, the dancers are required to create the movement of the
performance afresh on each occasion, even though an understanding of the move-
ment quality or intention has been decided upon. This strategy seemed essential to
a project that was endeavouring to unravel the intricacies of individual masculine
experiences.
The intense, almost ritual quality is made more complex by the appearance of Martin in the
upstage corner. Martin progresses on a diagonal towards Simon stopping three times. At each
pause he performs small solos, which are twitchy, staccato, erratic little cameos—minute collapses
of identity. He seems drawn to Simon as if Simon has an understanding of something, which he
lacks—perhaps a psychological clarity regarding the ailment he suffers. But Simon, unaware of his
presence, offers nothing. Martin backs away to re-engage with his own uncertainties, reconfiguring
his body in sharp breaks at the hips and bursts of tensile movement. He cannot find a comfortable
and sustained rhythm.
Improvisation has been central to both the choreographic and theoretical aspects of
the work and the ways these two aspects coexist and inform each other. As a method,
improvisation offers the possibility of an on-going dialogue between the phenom-
enal and objective dimensions, a dialogue in some ways observable and sometimes
reportable. As Phillipa Rothfield notes:
A phenomenology of bodies looks to the ways bodies feel in movement.

Not only what muscles and bones are being utilised to move or to dance, but
what that feels like. It represents a kind of kinaesthetic sensitivity. (Rothfield
1994/5: 80)
A phenomenal orientation to dancing implies each dancer’s experience is different,

that their internal understanding will manifest in a unique way. With such an orien-
tation, improvisation has the potential to tap into these experiences and how each
dancer embodies his sense of identity. As this work is directed toward the specificities
of masculine subjectivity, what Rothfield calls “kinaesthetic sensitivity”, was crucial
to realising the goal in an embodied form. Improvisational dancing, then, provides a
methodology for sifting through phenomenal perspectives on dancing and a way of
moulding multiple contributions into an objectively constituted performance.
As a result of this strategy, the movement material became extremely particular to
those who danced it. Although I maintained a large degree of navigational control
regarding the direction and form the piece would take, in many ways this piece was
specifically about the experiences of the three dancers. Chamber was particular to their
anatomical structure, to their kinaesthetic relationship to time and space, to their
body image, and their unique interweaving of the psychical and the physical. Their
motivation to move was determined by an internal or subjective source. This motiva-
tion was on occasion affected by my input or direction, but was also determined by
their own responses to tasks over which I had limited control:
The practice of inward focusing, central to ideokinesis, places a person directly

in touch with their own unique world of images, and with the unique operation
of their own creative process. Spontaneous images, often filled with personal
significance, are the very stuff of creativity, and exist as rich sources for dance.
The ideokinetic method outlines a clear practice of incorporation, articulation
and physicalization of images from image > action. In practice however the
work more often than not moves in two directions, image >< action, image
and movement constantly informing and modifying one another. (Dempster
1985: 20)
Dempster’s passage provides a useful comparison. While the process employed in

Chamber was not consciously based on ideokinesis4, the concerns and methods of
ideokinesis run parallel to those of improvisation and indeed often overlap. Im-
provisation has the potential to draw upon the emotional, psychological and cultural
positions of the dancer in extremely complicated ways; ways which are often more
difficult to verbally articulate than physically express. There is often a kind of “uni-
verse of possibilities” within improvisation but despite this, very personal, intimate
moments emerge that speak strongly about the ways that individual engages with
the world. The dancer’s physical disclosures are imbued with the personal, acting as
a conduit between the internal machinations of consciousness and the audience’s
scrutiny of the object body. These disclosures inevitably reflect his understanding
about how his private self meets the world.
The dancer’s culturally attuned persona will also inevitably be exhibited in his im-
provising as surely as a man walks, sits, throws and runs differently from a woman.
Men’s bodies clearly carry gender codification as strongly as women’s bodies do.
Sally Gardner, in talking about the post-modern dance practices of certain 1960’s
and 1970’s choreographers, says that by ‘placing necessarily coded bodies in non-
representational or “other” contexts they contributed to a displacement or unset-
tling of conventional readings of the body’ (Gardner 1996: 56). I would argue that
improvisation offers this occasion for disruption, for surprise, for revealing what
was not known, for disturbing the habitual. This is when the veneer of masculinity
may slip for a moment. This is when the dancer’s fixed gaze is interrupted to reveal
pleasure or fear; when his body becomes animated by the fleeting, long-forgotten
memory; when he forgets himself and moves with a delicacy and fluidity he may
never have achieved when dancing in predetermined choreography. This immersion
in the moment of improvisation has the capacity to suspend the requirements of the
masculine order. Gardner continues by saying:
Earlier, I suggested that the idea of ‘neutrality’ in certain dance practices might
also be formulated in terms of their aiming to make the body available for
re-inscription in ‘other’ ways. These practices require a certain ambience or
environment—a space and time in which purposes and activities are strategi-
cally suspended, perhaps to enable the dance to move ‘in a space emptied of
things and thus of the order of things’ as Alphonso Lingis suggests—space
for a wilful hesitation during which a gap might be opened for the creation of
a different kind of bodily order. (Gardner 1996: 55)
This was the spirit in which Chamber was investigated. The outcomes in perform-
ance still exhibit strong links to the old order and the inherent contradictions it
contains. But the project was an attempt by us as men to engage with this ideal and
to initiate a small and particular re-embodiment of masculinity.
In the Rehearsal Studio

For me as a choreographer, improvisation is a powerful creative tool. My work, in
its initial stages, was forged from repeated improvisational sessions with the dancers
and myself. From these sessions emerged, themes, ideas, images, relationships and
spatial considerations. It is from this rich resource that the content, the structure
and, to a certain degree, the intention of the choreography was drawn. The move-
ment parameters (defining the type or quality of movement, how long it lasted, who
was involved, and so on) were usually made as a result of testing ideas through im-
provisation rather than applying a predetermined movement or movement qualities
onto the dancers. I would then attempt to clarify or objectify what it is the dancers
would show in a performance. In this sense, there was a link between the subjective
origins in improvisation, and the objective imperatives of producing a piece of cho-
reography for public viewing.
These rehearsals became a way to try out or test ideas gleaned from the theoretical
reading I had been doing. It became a form of physicalised debate and self-reflec-
tion, for the dancers and me, as we engaged with issues pertaining to masculine
embodiment and subjectivity. By using discussion and improvisation as the starting
points I aimed to create an open and fluid working environment in which I could
experiment, surprises could occur, and to which the dancers could contribute. The
creative structure enabled me to operate intuitively throughout, be open to the unex-
pected outcomes of improvisation and to defer any final decisions about the appro-
priateness and structure of material until close to the performance time. By working
intuitively rather than with predetermined directives and ideas, by focusing on the
embodied experiences of the men involved and by using the indeterminate quality
of improvisation I aimed to make a dance work that avoided yet commented upon
the universalising and dominating capacities of hegemonic masculinity.
Uses of Improvisation in Process and Performance

There were three distinct methods in which improvisation was employed. The first of
these was as a way to play with an idea or an image that I had previously devised and
consequently the intention was largely predetermined. Despite my intention of being
open to the discovery of material through the improvisational process, these ideas
seemed necessary in order to anchor the piece in the context I had set out for myself.
These ideas would then be interpreted as scores for the dancers to improvise with
and the results either further developed or discarded. The outcomes would then be
loosely set. For example, the image of Simon and Martin walking toward the audience
with pants down and shirts up was constructed in this way. This image began with the
idea for the text (an authoritative voice reading the executive employment advertise-
ments) and was originally constructed as something more physically complex. How-
ever, as the dancers played with the instructions (involving a degree of set movement
and them sitting on chairs) I began to whittle down the movement content until we
were left with the simple act of walking in a straight line toward the audience.
Another use for improvisation was as a method for exploration. When I had only
a very ill-defined sense of what the possibilities might be, I would ask the dancers to
improvise around a loose score without the expectation that I would use this score
in its current state. For example when I asked the dancers to dance cheek-to-cheek
that was the limit of the instruction. In my mind there was a question about what
effect might emerge from three men dancing in such an intimate relationship. What
they did with this instruction was completely open, at least initially, and refined in
its intention as we rehearsed it. This method was essentially a way of scanning for
material but without knowing what I wanted or what I hoped to find. Often this was
a way of investigating a specific context in which to view the movement ideas.
Sometimes the instruction was completely abandoned in the course of an im-
provisation when the dancers became completely absorbed in new material and dis-
coveries. The decision about the appropriateness of this material (did it fit into the
work?) was suspended as I attempted to follow an intuitive response to the material
and defer any judgements about how the work would crystallise. If the outcome of
an improvisation were fresh and engaging we would work with it until a later time
when a more formal editing and structuring process occurred.
Finally improvisation was used as a performance mode in its own right. That is to
say the movement material was discovered for the first time in performance with no
relationship to anything done in rehearsal. Usually there were elements of structure
containing these improvisations but no predetermined score. The main examples
of this in Chamber were when touch was used as the motivating factor for what the
dancers did. The quality of the touch and the dancer’s response to it, determined
the nature of the movement material. This was an element over which I had very
little or even no control. The structure that inhibited the dancers was the considera-
tion about where in the space they danced (so as to effectively light their actions in
the space or to provide room for another event to occur) and to a certain extent
how long they danced for.5 Otherwise they were free to find fresh material in each
performance. This ploy was at the heart of my desire to keep the piece alive, risky
and indeterminate and for it to be embedded in the personal signatures of the men
dancing in it.
Effects of Improvisation on my Role as Choreographer

As a choreographic tool, I found that improvisation can reverberate with the sen-
tience of the male dancers themselves. It also allowed for the unexpected in what I,
as a male choreographer, see as possible. It interrupted the habitual in my choreo-
graphic sensibility letting me work in an intuitive way rather than following a blue-
print of choreographic intent. This enabled me to engage in a process of trial and
error, of feeling my way, of touching the contours of the thing before it is seen.
My role as choreographer shifted between two models. The first model was that
of the traditional choreographer who was directly responsible for the material and
transcribed this unchanged onto the dancers (although the occasions that this oc-
curred were extremely rare). The second model was the dominant one in which I
played a more directorial role, less physically involved but shaping and structuring
the contributions of the dancers themselves. Their work altered in response to my
thoughts or suggestions, but the actualisation of these thoughts was carried out by
the dancers themselves. This model was used for the bulk of the material generated
and kept for the final form of the work.
None of this diminishes my impact on the work. My sensibility was evident

throughout in the choice of movement instructions (scores), in the chronological
placement of sections, in the juxtaposition and combination of discrete movement
sections and images, or in the collaborations I had with the composer and video
makers. I was alone in having access to and an understanding of all of the elements
that went into the making of Chamber. My choice of a very specific strategy of cul-
tivating the indeterminate in the choreographic process and shaping the structures
this entailed gave the piece its tenor and defining qualities. However, the contribu-
tions of the dancers (and the other artists involved) gave the work a greater depth
and level of intimacy: a deeper well of experiences from which to draw.
The Development of Some Key Rehearsal Scores
The Touch Improvisations

Many of the early rehearsals and improvisations centred on the use of touch, as an
entry point to an improvisation. With eyes closed, one dancer received the tactile
information given by a partner. This was not the alignment-specific touching which
many dancers are so familiar with, but qualities of touch that were erratic, delicate,
flippant, annoying or unexpected. When the touching finished, the dancer used the
physical memory of the experience as source material for their improvisation. The
results in movement were often imbued with a sense of rich association to memo-
ries and personal experience that no verbal instruction could hope to achieve. These
dances were very personal in the ways they played out and riveting to watch because
of the dancer’s attention to the quality of the experience.
The touch improvisations proved to be an exceptionally rich resource, one which
created different responses each time we did it. The tactile information was easy to
vary and extremely changeable in the kinds of responses it generated. Assimilation
of the information received from these tactile sessions often proved to be extremely
complex. It was difficult to capture a particular thought or association: sometimes
memories would be brought to life, sometimes feelings, sometimes sensations which
felt familiar or alternatively quite strange. We deliberately avoided the kind of tactile
work which dancers often experience in release–based dance classes. We did not, for
example, use specific patterns of touch that are designed to increase awareness of
particular postural or alignment goals, such as might be used in a Skinner Release
Technique class. The aim was not to make the dancers move more efficiently, but
to stimulate a personal response. As such, the touch was often erratic and random
or with variable qualities of pressure. Several sections of Chamber drew on the work
developed in these sessions:
Simon closes his eyes and jacob begins to carve simon’s skin with the edge of his hand. Jacob lifts
and drops simon’s arm, or lifts his whole body weight on his knee. He pokes, slices, brushes, digs and
scratches simon’s surface. It looks as if to be a bizarre continuation of the previous duel, and in a
sense it is. But it is also a leap into another kind of logic. Then jacob leaves indicating the beginning
of simon’s solo. This is simon ‘embodying’ his subjectivity, his identity, and his memory as jacob’s
touch triggers a plethora of complex images and sensations, and plunges him into a rich realm of as-
sociation. There is immediacy about his response that never seems to diminish with the repetition in
performance. It is hard to get used to this. The touching asks many questions and simon is impelled
to give account; his responses are telling without any words to describe them. He encounters many
divergent narratives in this act, jumbled and confused, but always embodied. There is an existential
dimension to simon’s ensuing solo that the audience can kinaesthetically sense but never quite see.
In their physical interpretations, all of the dancers were attempting to remain as true
as possible to the reception, memory and associations of these complex stimuli.
As we watched, in rehearsals, the act of one person giving the tactile information
and another receiving it, it seemed to me that this was in fact a duet. There was just
as much interest for me in watching what kind of approach the toucher would take
as there was in watching the improvisation that ensued. This then developed into a
score where Martin and Simon used wooden sticks to touch Jacob to see if there
was a noticeable difference. The metaphor I was interested in was about a more
clinical form of touch, where the warmth and support of touch could be held at bay.
A more objectified, medical or scientific kind of touching might speak more about
the difficulties men have in touching each other free of any sexual overtones. But
in the reworking of this idea we discarded the sticks as an unnecessary and clumsy
addition. Martin and Simon were able to apply a kind of “measuring and testing”
form of touch without them. This created a slightly mysterious extension of Jacob’s
personally absorbed solo at the very opening of the piece.
The Secrets Improvisations
Score: Think of a secret you have never told anyone and use your feelings, thoughts and associations
of this memory to initiate movement.
This score was given to each dancer separately and at different rehearsals. They
spent some time thinking about a situation from their own lives, which they had
never revealed to anyone else as the basis for their improvisation. My intention was
to work in an area of some discomfort for the dancers and to site this discomfort in
their own experience. I never found out what the secrets were for any of the three
dancers. The interest for me lay not with the content of their secrets but in how they
responded to them in movement.
The outcome of this exploration for Martin was a knotty and troubled solo in
which he buries his head in the crook of his elbow and struggles with his own insub-
ordinate hand. For Simon there is an equally edgy motif of thrashing arm and deep
squats combined with moments of him quietly speaking: there was blood … the first
time. How do you tell someone? With Jacob the situation was slightly different: he claimed
not to have a secret that he never told anyone. Instead, he said, all his secrets were
told to various people in different ways. What developed out of his response was an
improvisation where he began telling a story about Simon—a completely fabricated
scenario—that Simon felt inclined to put a stop to by putting his hand over Jacob’s
mouth. By working with this beginning, the scene was rearranged slightly to have
Simon begin to tell a story and for Jacob to stop him and then for Jacob to take over
by telling a story about Simon. Jacob told a different story for most performances
and managed to keep the surprise and expectation for Simon quite genuine.
The challenge, in the development of these three fragments of material, was to
re-find the same state of feeling and quality of movement. This was material which
I felt warranted being presented with its original intensity, rather than providing a
space for more open-ended improvisation. They also provided strong references to
the nature of the struggle for identity these men were engaged in.
Goya Improvisations
The so-called Goya improvisations were sessions that used as impetus the grotesque,
black and white prints of nineteenth century Spanish artist Francisco Goya. More
specifically we drew on the series of prints loosely entitled Los Disparates:
These prints contain more or less absurd, Surrealistic images: bulls flying
through the air, an elephant staring motionless at a group of men, people
crouching like frozen birds on a branch, a horse catapulting a woman into the
air, distorted faces screaming silently, and people fleeing from phantom. The
Disparates could be described as a series of dreams. For just like nocturnal
dreams they are strange and familiar. Whoever tries to decipher them is grop-
ing in the dark. This enigmatic quality is precisely what endows the series with
modernity. These subjects are no longer drawn from the traditional language
of artistic images, but from a private world. (Buchholz 1999: 80)
It was this enigmatic quality that I was drawn to, and the metaphor is quite straight-
forward: masculinity groping in the dark, uncertain of its own interpretation, sur-
prised and frightened by what steps out from the shadows. The sense of the gro-
tesque in the prints, which I equated with a fear of the unknown, linked closely with
my intentions for Chamber. The ambiguity was also attractive; no clear answers, no
easy options and a search for meaning.
These prints, generated responses which formed the latter part of Chamber. The
duet between Martin and Simon was conceived as an embodiment of two of the char-
acters from the print entitled Disparate Carnaval (Carnaval Folly) (Heckes 1998: 74).
By beginning in the pose and attitude of these two strange figures, Simon and
Martin slowly fleshed out, over numerous attempts, a duet that captured their spirit.
Jacob’s slightly comical character that makes a surprising entrance after this duet was
also a progeny of these prints. His print was called Disparate de bobo (Simpleton) which
features a huge simpleton with a broad but eerie grimace (Buchholz 1999: 81). Jacob
slipped into a kind of approximation of this character quite readily, but his introduc-
tion created a huge shift in focus for the performance as a whole. I was not able to
resolve this shift to my satisfaction, despite feeling like the introduction of this dark-
ly amusing dullard was entirely fitting:
Jacob’s entrance has the potential for comic relief as he mugs like a simpleton and meanders around
the space, humming quietly to himself. But the laugh is still a black one as he too has lost any re-
semblance to temperate masculinity. He has become a deranged and gormless caricature as he skips
and frolics through the shadowy light. His is a contradictory presence–funny and bleak, a simpleton
but complex in his impact, unskilled as dancer in a way that takes great skill. He can negotiate the
uncertainty of the place they have all arrived in, in a way the other two cannot, because he is beyond
caring. But this ability marks him as even less of a man. He is stranger in the final analysis because
he has stepped further over that line of demarcation that gives psychological definition to a man.
As he sits down on Martin’s supine form and blinks cheerily into the light, the poetry of James K.
Baxter casts an apocalyptic pall over the stillness.
Reflections on Chamber
The performances of Chamber were the brief, but intensely satisfying reward for the
long hours spent on its conception. One of the most satisfying aspects of watching
the piece unfold in front of an audience was seeing how it took on a life of its own.
The work seemed to expand and contract and take on an organic shape in ways I had
not seen in rehearsals. The dancers, spurred on by the presence of an audience, came
to life and injected fresh imaginative spirit into their movement. They also came to
understand Chamber in a much more intimate way; in a way that only the experience
of the work in performance seems to bring. This sharpened their sense of timing,
heightened their awareness of their movement and of each other, and let them oc-
cupy the space with greater performance presence. There was no longer the neces-
sity to think their way through the performance, able instead to be in the movement
and to intuit the implications one moment or one gesture would have for the next.
As a result Chamber changed in subtle but discernible ways over the course of the
performance season. These shifts were never seismic or glaring. But there was steady
centrifugal pull toward focus: like watching a Polaroid photograph develop before
your eyes until the image is sharply defined.
From the outset, I pursued the agenda of complicating masculinity and of sullying
the iconic uniformity it often still holds. I believe I succeeded in doing this but at a
certain cost. It appears to me upon reflection that the alternative space in which men
might dance, the kind of utopian aspiration that was also an initial desire, became
overshadowed by the sheer weight of the reaction to the influence of hegemonic
masculinity. It was a conflict in a piece about contradictions. And possibly the most
tenuous proposition was that a structured improvisation was in fact possible. My
response to this is that Chamber succeeded in presenting masculinity as problematic
and in aligning men with embodiment. But the necessary desire to articulate this very
context curtailed the possibility of the movement spontaneously shifting to another
context or to another dynamic or to another realm of the unexpected. This degree
of indeterminacy is what an unstructured improvisation can offer and while indeter-
minacy was present in Chamber, it did not dominate. What came to dominate in the
final analysis was the structure of the work—the elements that remained immutable
from performance to performance. Because of this, I think Chamber could be under-
stood or interpreted from a more singular perspective. But the more ephemeral and
unexpected dancing moments that improvised dance can produce were less evident
or distinct under the weight of the structure.
Renowned dance teacher Mary Fulkerson talks about a distinction, which Ramsay
Burt identifies as that which exists:
Between work that is ‘trying to be like’ something else and work that is just
“trying to be”. Although work that is ‘trying to be like’ can be pleasing through
being familiar, it doesn’t interest Fulkerson: ‘It is work that tries “to be” which
puzzles, angers, moves, challenges me and keeps my attention’. (Burt 1995: 71)
It is the hinge between the realms that Fulkerson describes, between the “trying to
be like” and the “being” on which Chamber teetered. Chamber does have symbolic
structure. The order of events and images were thought about and decided upon;
certain images were developed as direct representational references to masculinity
and the video imagery was incorporated as symbolic markers for the movement. In
other words the context for the movement was deliberate and directly referential.
But the movement was often not intentionally referential to the masculine order—
even if it came to be seen that way by association. The structures were designed so
that I would have limited control over the outcome and this was the offering to a
possible alternative for masculine identity or construction. But despite this aim, my
sense is that the movement was too fragile to rise above the rigidity of the structure.
The context for Chamber was clear, but the alternatives were never fully realised.
I do not wish to undermine the original spirit, the impact or the achievements of
Chamber. I feel it had integrity and power in dealing with the issues in the way it did. I
also learnt how to create choreography in, from my perspective, a new way. To have
completely handed over responsibility for all of the movement to the dancers, and
to have built their contributions into a coherent piece was a very different approach
for me. The challenge was always about finding how to communicate my intentions
and needs in a format that facilitated their movement exploration. I could not show
them what I wanted. Indeed, often I did not precisely know what I wanted. There was
a substantial amount of trial and error and suspension of judgement about the ap-
propriateness of rehearsal material—something that the dancers handled with good
humour and sensitivity. Improvisation showed me how much greater the range of
options were and how often the surprises in rehearsal were so much more powerful
than any movement idea I might have presupposed. I afforded myself the space to
sit with ideas, and work them through, until the intuitive recognition of the material
was complete and resounding. As such this process offered me a valuable education-
al trajectory in my creative development and nurtured a strong felt understanding of
a new creative methodology.
Chamber was a complex work. The sheer weight of time and thought that collected
around it gave it a very dense quality. In engaging with both physical and theoretical
perspectives, and their points of intersection, Chamber created an ongoing tension in
its inception and realisation. There needed to be a mutual interaction between these
two aspects, which ultimately gave the work much greater depth, but it was also a
constant shackle. As I was attempting to work intuitively in the studio, the theoretical
concerns took time to assimilate. While the intentions inherent in Chamber may at
times be complicated as a consequence of this interaction, my belief is that the work
is far more mature and considered because of it.
7
RHIZOME/MYZONE: A CASE STUDY

IN STUDIO–BASED DANCE RESEARCH
Kim Vincs
Dance practice has only recently begun to be articulated as a specific methodology

for dance research. Implicitly, however, the idea that writing and dancing together
define dance research has been embedded in the field for some time. For exam-
ple, there is a longstanding tradition in postgraduate dance education of presenting
performance work accompanied by a written minor thesis. A minor thesis typically
describes documents and articulates the philosophy of the student’s artwork. This
structure assumes that dancing and writing function together to form a whole. How-
ever, attempts to clarify the methodological foundations of this assumption are a
relatively recent development.
The debate about the relationship between practice and theory in dance research
has been played out largely through the development of practice–based postgradu-
ate programs, and this has taken place mainly in the UK and Australia. This direc-
tion has been driven by many factors, not least of which has been a migration of
mid–career dance artists to the academy. This migration has come about because
practice–based research programs provide the attractive combination of a situation
in which artists can undertake their own creative development and the prospect of
improved employment in the future.1
Dance research has always and inevitably involved a relationship with practice, but
the traditional structure of dances as objects to be investigated, usually by someone
other than the artist who made the work, is being deconstructed by dance practition-
ers undertaking practice–based research. This is producing a shift from dance as an
object of investigation to dance as a means of investigating.
This deconstruction is both an historical shift attributable to the attraction of mid–
career dance artists to the tertiary sector, and a shift that is in keeping with the current
cultural and intellectual climate. We are no longer in the era of positivist, objectively
verifiable research outcomes, at least in significant areas of the arts and humanities. Un-
derstandings of knowledge have shifted from positivist to subjective perspectives.
This is a different cultural moment that draws on a subjective understanding of
knowledge. I like to draw my understanding of this cultural moment from French
philosophers Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari. They model knowledge as a rhi-
zome, a web of interconnecting elements in which ‘any point of a rhizome can be
connected to anything other, and must be’ (Deleuze and Guattari 1987: 7). Fields of
knowledge are not separate from each other or from the pragmatic effects of subjec-
tivity, identity and politics. To be a dance artist, for example, is not to engage solely
with single activity, such as dancing, or perfecting technique, or exercising creativ-
ity, but involves constructing a simultaneous engagement with a multiplicity of ele-
ments. Engagement is never with one thing or one field of knowledge in isolation.
Claire Parnett makes it clear that in:
Desiring an object, a dress, for example, the desire is not for the object, but
for the whole context, the aggregate. “I desire in aggregate” … So there is no
desire, says Deleuze, that does not flow into an assemblage, and for him, desire
has always been a constructivism, constructing an assemblage ‘agencement’, an
aggregate: “aggregate of the skirt, of the sunray, of a street, of a woman, of a
vista, of a colour … constructing a region”. (Parnet 1996)
Subjectivity is inevitably and intricately woven into rhizomic structures of knowl-

edge. To research dance in this context, one must go beyond isolating dance prac-
tices as texts to be read, to the idea of dance practice as a field in which rhizomic
structures of knowledge are produced and integrally laced through with the subjec-
tivity of the artist. Deleuze critiques understanding books as objects, or even texts,
to be interpreted:
There are, you see, two ways of reading a book: you either see it as a box with
something inside it and start looking for what signifies, and then if you’re even
more perverse or depraved you set off after the signifiers. And you treat the
next book like a box contained in the first, or containing it.… Or here’s another
way: you see the book as a little non–signifying machine, and the only question
is ‘Does it work, and how does it work?’ (Deleuze in Buchanan 2000: 35)
Studio-based research in dance performs the same kind of critique. It shifts the fo-
cus of dance research from the idea that dance is a product, a repository of knowl-
edge or ideas that can be interrogated and interpreted to the notion of dance as a
field in which knowledge is produced. The subjectivity of the artist, itself a complex,
rhizomic web, is a part of this field in which knowledge is produced.
I want to develop the idea that dancing and making dances forms a space or a sub-
strate within which to think about dance. Rather than dances being the outcomes of
thinking done previously, dances are the actual process of thinking, and this process
is the core methodology of studio–based dance research. To develop this argument
in a concrete way, I describe my own experience as a PhD student working in both
practice and theory. Out of that journey, I will frame a methodological dilemma that
arises out of the collision between practice and theory: to pursue an investigation of
specific issues through making dances, or to explore what it is about making dances
that inevitably sabotages and exceeds the most carefully targeted research questions.
A CASE STUDY IN STUDIO–BASED DANCE RESEARCH 101
Rhizome/MyZone: A Methodological Dilemma

When I began my PhD in dance through practice and exegesis, I will freely confess
that I did not have a methodology in place to situate my dance practice in relation
to the written exegesis that I was to produce. This was quite deliberate. I felt that
I needed to produce some dancing in order to see which questions and issues the
dancing brought forward. This, in essence, was my methodology. I made a series of
dances, and gradually identified the issues each one presented, and the questions that
they raised about dance. I then used these questions to fuel the making of further
dances and the development of a methodology for the project as a whole.
The result of this was that when I was able to formulate a clear set of research
questions and a methodological structure that could accommodate them, the stu-
dio work, and not a set of pre–existing questions had directed the nature of the
research.
This emergent approach is highly significant to the point where I would suggest
that it is perhaps the only constant one can count on in the field of practical research.
In the arts, research methodology is often retrospective. This is a contentious idea,
because the first rule of traditional research is normally to have a well defined re-
search question and clear methodology before even gaining admission to research
training degrees. But when studio practice is concerned, the rule is turned on its
head because the nature of artwork is itself emergent. To try to impose a convergent
framework on it, even with the best of possible intentions, is doomed to failure.
Either one ends up with convergent, predictable, and ultimately unoriginal artwork,
which, however conveniently it can be articulated in the exegesis, is of little value to
the artistic discipline in question, or one ends up with a clear research paradigm, but
badly behaved, unruly artwork that refuses to be contained within that paradigm.
A pragmatic answer is perhaps to say that it’s all just too difficult, and artwork sim-
ply belongs outside the sphere of research. In this scenario, artwork may be included
in a postgraduate degree, but it is assessed on the basis of its professional compe-
tency, rather than on the ideas it engages. This is an argument of equivalency. It says
let’s value artwork, but not pretend it can contribute to the field of research, except
as an object to be evaluated.
Another pragmatic answer is to make art practice conform to the structures that
dictate research methodologies in other fields. There may be some compromises to
be made in the nature of the artwork, but, say the pragmatists, perhaps that is a small
price to pay for entrée into the prestigious field of “research”. This may be the an-
swer that results in the least bureaucratic fuss and bother, but it doesn’t develop art
practice as a research field. If art practice can only do what other kinds of research
can do, can only work with the same kinds of structures, methodologies and epis-
temological frameworks, and if it can only do this with a certain amount of mess,
that is, a certain amount of compromise to its own nature, or, as it might be termed
in scientific language, significant degrees of approximation, then the question be-
comes, why do it at all? It is only worth doing art practice-as-research, particularly
given the difficulties and expense involved, if it can contribute something unique to
the field of knowledge it operates in.
Neither of these approaches confronts the question of what dance practice can
uniquely contribute to dance research. If dance practice is treated as a primary source
of knowledge, rather than simply an object of study, what kinds of knowledge might
that practice produce?
At the beginning of my research journey, despite having no clear methodology
other than making a series of dances to see how I made dances, I did have an idea
about how my exegesis would be related to the studio work. I assumed that writing
an exegesis of my work would be a process of identifying and articulating discover-
ies I had made through making dances. In the words of Deakin University’s Guide
to Candidature for Higher Degrees by Research, the exegesis would ‘elucidate the
performance work and place it in a disciplinary context and would be … in no sense
a separate exercise in art theoretical discourse’ (Deakin University 2001: 88).
This paradigm assumes that there will be a single, originary, philosophical and/or
aesthetic stance, which the dances demonstrate. When I looked at my dances, how-
ever, I quickly began to appreciate that there was no single concern, or even a related
set of concerns within them that I could articulate as the results of research. The
intertextuality of my dances at the most simplistic levels, that is their references to
diverse sign systems such as literary texts, conventions of contemporary dance as
abstract design and as symbolic expression, autobiographical structures and histori-
cal discourses, immediately precluded any singular perspective that my dances could
be understood to embody or demonstrate.
I could not reveal what had transpired in the dance work because there was not
necessarily a core “effect” or core “concern” of the dance work to reveal. Rather,
there were multiple effects and concerns embodied within the work, and these ele-
ments were not ideologically, philosophically or even aesthetically consistent. They
worked with different languages, different frames of reference, and even different
sets of values.
There seemed to me to be two possible responses to this dilemma. One approach
would have been to set about making dances that functioned as interrogations of
particular issues, ignoring or neglecting any other ideas the dances suggested. This
would have made the task of the exegesis clear: to examine the extent to which the
dance work successfully interrogated a particular set of issues, and to articulate the
results of this interrogation. Alternatively, had I made the choice to reflect on the
finished works, I could have written an exegesis that focused only on the elements
of the dances relevant to my chosen set of issues, and considered everything else to
be noise, interesting, but irrelevant to the task at hand.
The other approach to the dilemma was to eschew the idea that a dance work can
or should be about investigating a finite and predetermined set of issues. To take this
approach is to expect that the dances will examine a number of different concerns.
This is not to say that such dances can’t or don’t interrogate issues, but rather to refuse
to privilege any one of a diverse set of interrogations taking place simultaneously.
This second approach is essentially a decision to value the complexity and rich mul-
tiplicity of concerns in an artwork, and to undertake the task of developing a research
methodology that can deal with that complexity. While it might perhaps be easier to
adopt an “issue-driven” analysis and to ignore everything in the dances that doesn’t
contribute to an examination of those particular concerns, this course of action is
exactly the kind of pragmatism that strips artwork of what makes it different from
other kinds of endeavours, and hence of what makes it valuable and worth doing.
I decided to adopt the second course of action and to develop a framework within
which I could write about the diversity, internal disjunctions and heterogeneity I
found in my dance works.
Deleuze and Guattari understand knowledge and subjectivity as rhizomic. Rhi-
zomic structures are like the underground root systems of wild grasses that extend
in all directions. Rather than progressing in the orderly manner of a tree (an arbo-
rescent system), in which each branch divides into two, each sub–branch divides into
two, and so on, a rhizome is characterised by rampant growth in all directions at
once. According to them, an ‘assemblage is precisely this increase in the dimensions
of a multiplicity that necessarily changes in nature as it expands its connections’
(Deleuze and Guattari 1987: 8). In contrast to what they term arborescent systems,
the rhizome:
Operates by variation, expansion, conquest, capture, offshoots…. In contrast

to centred (or even polycentric) systems with hierarchical modes of communi-
cation and pre-established paths, the rhizome is an acentred, non–hierarchical,
nonsignifying system without a General and without an organizing memory
or central automatom, defined solely by a circulation of states. (Deleuze and
Guattari 1987: 21)
The idea of a “system without a General” seemed to correspond to the idea of an

artwork without a single underlying concern or perspective. In a rhizome, elements
of meaning are not hierarchically related. That is, meaning is not structured into the
orderly pathways of the arborescent structure, where everything arises from a central
structure (the trunk of the tree). In a rhizome any two elements of meaning may be
connected to produce meaning. Thus, ‘any point of a rhizome can be connected to
anything other, and must be’ (Deleuze and Guattari 1987: 7). One may connect one
element to another, one idea to another, in any way one chooses. The defining char-
acteristic of the rhizome is its functionality. Particular pathways are not prescribed,
but rather whichever pathways are useful, whichever pathways make the elements of
meaning function with each other, may be created.
Elements of meaning in a rhizome don’t have to be ideologically or logically cohe-
sive. Any element can be connected with any other element, regardless of whether
those elements come from the same order or kind of meaning. Deleuze and Guattari
suggest that all events, ideas, symbols and languages exist on a single level playing
field. Ideas from diverse and heterogeneous fields of reference function with one an-
other, without explaining or representing one another. Elements in a rhizome don’t
arise from pre-existing, foundational, or prior phenomena, but rather meaning and
the illusion of depth arise from the interplay of these elements on what they call a
plane of exteriority. In their words:
The ideal would be to lay everything out on a plane of exteriority of this kind,
on a single page, the same sheet: lived events, historical determinations, con-
cepts, individuals, groups, social formations. (Deleuze and Guattari 1987: 9)
An important consequence of understanding my dances as “planes of exteriority”

was that nothing in the dances can be prior to anything else, and there is nothing pri-
or to the dances. In contrast Godard talks about giving directions to a particular place
in the city. Indicating a route, i.e., turn right, then after the post office turn left and so
on, produces a set of instructions that is linear and time–dependent (Louppe 1996:
15). You have to do things in a certain order. The post office is prior to turning left.
Turning right is prior to the post office. This is Deleuze and Guattari’s arborescent
structure, or tracing, in which a genetic axis or deep structure defines instructions for
interpretation and specifies the rules by which the instructions must be followed.
The Map
The other option is to produce a map. In a map, everything is laid out on the same
plane, on the page. The map is not time–dependent. It doesn’t tell you what to read
first, or in what order to put things together. It is an instrument for someone to use
as they will. It doesn’t dictate how one should use it:
What distinguishes the map from the tracing is that it is entirely oriented toward
experimentation with the real. The map does not reproduce an unconscious closed
in on itself; it constructs the unconscious. (Deleuze and Guattari 1997: 12)
When I construct dance as a plane of consistency, I am making a map, not a set

of directions. I connect elements, but I don’t indicate causal relationships. I do not,
for example, say, ‘I dance the way I do because it used to be painful to put weight
on my right leg when I was four years old’. Rather, I place an image of myself in an
iron calliper at age four alongside a discourse about dance training, a dance phrase,
and a joke about Bob Dylan’s singing voice. The connections are not prescribed, but
laid out as a map for the reader to make use of. The dance becomes like Guattari’s
pocket calculator:
Imagine that someone offers you a little calculator to perform arithmetical

operations. Is there communication there? A potential usage is transmitted to
you. The performances it allows are established as soon as a certain compe-
tence relating to its use is acquired. In my view, the same thing happens with
theoretical expressions that should function as tools, as machines, with refer-
ence to neither an ideology nor to the communication of a particular form of
ideology. (Guattari 1995: 38)
Thinking about dances as maps, completely undermines the idea that an exegesis
might report or articulate dances. How would one report on a map? It might be pos-
sible to say that it was a well drawn map, or an accurate map, or a map that included
more or less detail, but it is impossible to say what the information contained in the map
is. It can have all kinds of uses, but no single meaning or content is communicated.
A map is not a representation of some prior, unifying idea, but rather something
that connects elements. A map cannot be translated because there is nothing prior
to it. One could translate all the symbols, identify all the roads and houses and build-
ings, but this doesn’t translate how these elements are connected, which is where any
“meaning” in the map lies. Similarly, I came to realise that if my dances were maps
of subjectivity, they could not be read as representations of anything, for example,
self, interiority, concepts, techniques or historical events. The dances were untrans-
latable because there was nothing prior to them to translate. The dances assembled
elements of subjectivity such as specific bodies, dance techniques, choreographic
genres, texts, histories, dance conventions, and events, to produce new coalitions be-
tween different elements and between different frameworks of meaning. There was
no discovery that the dances embodied. Rather, the dances are productive, connect-
ing a diverse set of previously unrelated elements of meaning. There is nothing prior
to the dances that the dances articulate or communicate, which means that there can
be nothing for the exegesis to summarise.
Dancing and Writing

If I were to give up imagining that the dances were prior to the exegesis, with the
exegesis reporting on events (and having the last word), I would have to re–envisage
the process of writing an exegesis. The dance and the writing had to function with
one another one the same epistemological level, as a dance–writing machine rather
than adopting a hierarchical structure in which one precedes and the other explains.
In making this shift, I had to confront the illocutionary and performative nature
of writing. Language is illocutionary when its grammatical structure accomplishes
something. For example, to say ‘what are you doing?’ is to ask a question. It is per-
formative when something is achieved in the act of speaking. For example, to say ‘I
promise’ is to promise.
Deleuze and Guattari argue that rather than language being means of communica-
tion, it is a means of exerting power. Rather than describing pre-existing things or
events, they argue that language is already an action, an exercise in power that defines
and normalizes some sets of relations and outlaws others:
When a schoolmistress instructs her students on a rule of grammar or arith-

metic, she is not informing them, any more than she is informing herself when
she questions a student. She does not so much instruct as “insign”, give orders
or commands…. The compulsory education machine does not communicate
information; it imposes upon the child semiotic coordinates possessing all of
the dual foundations of grammar (masculine-feminine, singular-plural, noun-
verb, subject of statement-subject of enunciation, etc.). (Deleuze and Guattari
1987: 75–76)
In relation to writing about dance, the very structure of the words one uses to de-
scribe this process—analysis, exegesis, discussion, and especially writing about

dance—function in this way. All of these terms position the dance as a primary
source that the words elucidate or articulate. The relationship between the two things
becomes hierarchical: the dance produces; the writing articulates that production.
This masks the productive elements of writing, and the articulatory aspects of the
dance work. Ironically, the function of the linguistic structure is to mask its own ac-
tive, productive nature and writing is allowed to masquerade as a passive “reporting”
of dance.
Writing about dance is not as simple as communicating what happened in the
dance, what it is about, or how it is made. Writing about dance performs certain
functions, classifying and positioning the dance in certain ways. Rather than leaving
this an unconscious and unacknowledged process in my work, I set about finding a
way of making this process explicit and working with it.
Desire and Delirium

Coming to understand both writing and dancing as driven by desire rather than by a
consistent logic or ideology was an important step in devising this strategy. In using
the term “desire” I am referring to Deleuze and Guattari’s understanding of desire
as an immanent, productive process that distributes pleasure (Deleuze and Guattari
1987: 155). This is contrary to the Lacanian perspective that desire is lack2. In the
psychoanalytical tradition, desire is theorised as being produced through the acting
out of the Oedipus complex within each family. It is predicated on the idea of cas-
tration and a constant lack or unattainability. Deleuze and Guattari’s idea of desire is
very different because it is based on the idea of the assemblage of elements in which
nothing is fixed, and there is no one template for how it is put together. Desire is
never for a single thing, such as father, mother, or phallus as advocated by psychoan-
alytic models, but always about a multiplicity of elements linked by the individual:
Delirium, linked to desire, is the contrary of delirium linked solely to the father
or mother; rather we “desire” about everything, the whole world, history, ge-
ography, tribes, deserts, peoples, races, climates.... (Parnet 1996)
Desire, as Deleuze and Guattari understand it, is not limited to single fields of refer-
ence. It is not necessarily coherent in an ideological sense because it is heterogeneous,
the linkage of a number of divergent elements. What defines desiring machines is pre-
cisely their capacity for an unlimited number of connections, in every sense and in all
directions (Guattari 1995: 126). The machine, as Guattari describes it:
Must be capable not of integrating, but of articulating singularities of the field

under consideration to join absolutely heterogeneous components. It is not by
absorption or eclectic borrowings that this can be achieved; it is by acquiring a
certain power, which I call, precisely, “deterritorialization”—a capacity to look
onto deterritorialized fields. I’m not keen on an approximate interdisciplinarity.
I’m interested in an “intradisciplinarity” that is capable of traversing hetero-
geneous fields and carrying the strongest charges of ‘transversality’. (Guattari

1995: 40)
Understanding both my dancing and my writing as desiring machines allowed me

to acknowledge that both were heterogeneous enterprises. That is, there is not neces-
sarily a coherent, homogenous point of view lying behind either one. Understanding
desire as machinic in this sense separates out desire from ideology. No one system
of meaning or political perspective is able to contain desire within its borders. De-
sire is activated by a diverse range of factors that do not necessarily come from the
same frame of reference or system of meaning, for example, desiring machines may
encompass signs, symbols, events, bodies, histories, organisations, circumstances and
ideologies. Guattari writes:
But, in my opinion, the analysis of the economy of desire implies a multivalent

logic that legitimates the coexistence of discourses that cannot have axiomatic
homogeneity. If you object and say that this is not what I said ten years ago,
I answer, ‘Too bad,’ or even, ‘So much the better.’ Perhaps this is a good sign!
Expressions of desire can simultaneously signify formally contradictory things,
because they refer to various universes of reference. (Guattari 1995: 41)
Understanding both dancing and writing as desiring machines means that dancing
and writing can no longer be considered in a hierarchical structure in which the writ-
ing describes the dancing. Instead, dancing and writing can be understood to func-
tion together, through a series of rhizomic connections. In this structure, the thesis
becomes a dancing–writing desiring machine.
Making this shift enabled me to structure my writing differently to the traditional
exegesis in which the dance work is reported, analysed and/or described. I struc-
tured my writing as a series of “deliriums”. The idea of the deliriums, was to create
a rhizomic logic on the page. I constructed the writing as a process of sliding across
metaphors. I placed different regimes, to borrow Deleuze and Guattari’s term, of
writing together; symbolic, stream of consciousness writing, movement descriptions,
explorations of dance theory, historical narratives and philosophical arguments (De-
leuze and Guattari 1997: 7).
I can perhaps best describe these written/danced deliriums by describing an expe-
rience of moving. I’m lying down, so the habitual organization of standing is sub-
verted. Any part of my body can initiate. Any part can take over. My knee might be
moving diagonally across my body and up in a diagonal trajectory into space. The
opposite shoulder, part of the torso, followed by hip and then upper leg might pro-
vide support into the ground for that action. Then my other elbow might take over,
then my opposite foot as I roll onto my stomach for support. Perhaps the back of
my head might then initiate, circumnavigating the space behind me. I might soften
and curl in through my spine to support my knee expanding into space. It all hap-
pens smoothly and seamlessly. Suddenly something else has taken over, but it was
never clear when the transition occurred. A foot could be working, or a hand or a hip
or a sternum, and it doesn’t matter which. As long as the movement happens there
are no demarcation disputes, and no territories to be contested between body parts.
The resulting work has its own internal flow, but no external imperative. It is not
directed at reaching somewhere, that is, it is not goal directed in the sense of trying
to reach an end point where the dance comes to mean/signify/produce a particular
philosophical outcome. In the deliriums I wrote, I re–mapped the dances, which I
had carefully examined in terms of their aesthetic, technical and ideological contexts,
in a way that allowed me to move between theory, philosophy, history, analysis, aes-
thetics and my own experience to produce an interplay of subjectivity that plugged
into my dances in multiple ways. The ultimate destination of such writing isn’t as
important as the territory it weaves through. It produces multiple connections.
The question in these deliriums is not what should or must go together, but in
Deleuze and Guattari’s words, ‘whether the pieces can fit together, and at what price.
Inevitably there will be monstrous crossbreeds’ (Deleuze and Guattari 1987: 157). By
this, I mean that, in juxtaposing what Deleuze and Guattari call ‘not only different
regimes of signs, but also states of things of differing status’ (Deleuze and Guattari,
1997: 7), the integrity of the interiority of each field of reference, including the in-
dividual dances and dancing itself, is constantly at risk of cross–contamination. The
purity of each discourse, artistic or philosophical, is jeopardised.
Perhaps, however, the problem really lies with the term analysis. Analysis in the
traditional sense implies dissecting an artwork in order to explain it, or to explain
how it is the kind of dance it is, and the assumption that this is possible is exactly
what I was undercutting in developing this approach to writing about (I should prob-
ably say with) my dancing. I was instead positioning analysis itself as also alive, grow-
ing and fuelled by desire. In a Deleuzian context, analysis itself has the potential to
be nomadic, roaming beyond the borders of the artwork that set it in motion and
ranging outside the parameters of art itself. While it may be impossible to entirely
divorce the notion of analysis from the notion of interpretation, once analysis is un-
derstood as a process of desire, it can never again be viewed purely as a representa-
tion or exposition of something else: that is, as an artwork.
The discussion, to this point, has linearity about it that I would now like to inter-
rupt with another narrative about how I came to the work of Deleuze and Guattari.
It was not just the identification of complexity and intertextuality in my dances that
led me to consider desire as an organizing principle for both writing and dancing. It
was also my experience as a choreographer.
The first excerpt from Deleuze’s work that caught my attention, was the assertion
that one never desires something or someone, but always rather desires an aggregate
“an ensemble”. Parnet suggests that for Deleuze and Guattari desire is imbricated in
the nature of relations between elements. She continues:
Deleuze refers to Proust when he says that desire for a woman is not so much
desire for the woman as for a ‘paysage’, an environment, that is enveloped in
this woman. Or in desiring an object, a dress for example, the desire is not for
the object, but for the whole context, the aggregate, “I desire in aggregate”….
So, there is no desire, says Deleuze, that does not flow into an assemblage, and
for him, desire has always been a constructivism, constructing an assemblage
‘agencement, an aggregate: “aggregate of the skirt, of the sunray, of a street,
of a woman, of a vista, of a colour…constructing a region”’. (Parnet 1996)
When I read this excerpt from Parnet’s interview with Deleuze, it occurred to me
that choreography was also an aggregate, an assemblage. Choreography was not just
about dancing and making dances. It was also about the desire to make a dance, the
desire to be a choreographer, and the assemblage of a range of elements that were
about constructing a subjectivity, not just making a dance. I thought, when I read
Deleuze’s description of desire as an aggregate, “yes, that’s exactly what it’s like when
I make a dance”. It occurred to me that my interest in choreography was less about
producing dances as products than about generating elements of subjectivity. More-
over, these elements of subjectivity were not all contained within the framework of
the dance language I was using. All kinds of elements of subjectivity were circulating
in my dances that were, and were not, related to aesthetic traditions, dance conven-
tions, and displays of choreographic ability. I suddenly saw the continuity between
self and artwork, not in the modernist sense that art is an expression of the artist’s
interiority, but in the context of a bigger assemblage: in what, in a Deleuze and Guat-
tarian context, one might call a dancing–thinking war machine.
Would I have come to the same conclusions had I been researching someone
else’s choreography? It is impossible to know for sure, but I suspect not because the
initial connection I made between choreographing and the production of subjectiv-
ity came out of my subjective experience of being a choreographer, not out of my
knowledge of dance as a field.
Deleuze and Guattari suggest that there is no unified, essential subject who speaks,
but rather that subjectivity is produced from a range of cultural/social subjective
capital. In their words:
The collective assemblage is always like the murmur from which I take my
proper name, the constellation of voices, concordant or not, from which I
draw my voice…. To write is perhaps to bring this assemblage of the uncon-
scious to the light of day, to select the whispering voices, to gather the tribes
and secret idioms from which I extract something I call myself (Moi). I is an
order word. (Deleuze and Guattari 1987: 84)
I came to understand my choreographic process as a similar process of gathering to-

gether elements of subjectivity. I gather together the specificity of my unique danc-
ing body, my history, my experiences, my knowledge of dance, my desire to commu-
nicate, and I assemble them together on the plane of exteriority of a dance.
Adopting a Deleuze and Guattarian framework for understanding my dances as
ways of producing subjectivity, shifted my focus away from the traditional dyad,
process and product. Rather than documenting my dance–making processes or in-
terpreting my finished dances, I came to understand my research project as con-
structing dances as actions, or, what Deleuze and Guattari would call “production”
(Deleuze and Guattari 1987). That is, the dances are not processes, although proc-
esses are used to make them, and they are not products in the sense of being com-
pleted statements, repositories for information or sites of communication. Rather,
they do things, and what they do is to bring together a range of ideas, stories and
ways of moving to produce a danced subjectivity.
Dance, in this context, becomes an exchange of elements of subjectivity, a kind of
circulating economy of the subject. More importantly perhaps, was the way in which
my dances were means of producing an individual subjectivity. Suely Rolnik talks
about the commodification of subjectivity as an inherent aspect of global capitalism.
She describes subjectivities as:
Ways of dwelling, dressing, conducting relationships, thinking, imagining—in

short, maps of modes of existence that are produced as genuine “prêt–à–por-
ter identities” (…ready to wear…) that can be easily assimilated, in relation
to which we are simultaneously producers, spectators and consumers. (Rolnik
2002: 2)
She argues that capital captures the power of invention and that even artists, or
perhaps especially artists, by virtue of the celebrity making process, are caught up in
that capture as ‘the quality of being artistic has become not only saleable but also,
and especially, something that helps to sell or be sold’ (Rolnik 2002: 7). The very
identity of the artist, her subjectivity, has become commodified. The coining of the
term “creative class” to describe a group of people who make inner city suburbs de-
sirable to live in, before themselves being priced out of those same suburbs as they
become prestigious and therefore expensive to buy in, is perhaps an example of this
phenomenon.
For Rolnik, resistance involves aiming to protect ‘life, in its infinite process of
differentiation’ (Rolnik 2002: 9). That is, the active invention of alternate scenarios,
possibilities and identities is crucial in avoiding the easier, but ultimately dulling,
anaesthetizing effect of the ready–to–wear luxury identity which is seemingly always
(but rarely actually is) on offer through the acquisition of goods and services.
I am arguing here, for any kind of authentic identity. I am not suggesting that my
dances represent some kind of nostalgic return to an authentic interiority that can be
expressed. But they do refer to the material. That is, they refer to my material, physi-
cal body. When I am dancing and making dances, I find ways of foregrounding my
unique, and hence unrepresentable, physicality. If corporeality and subjectivity are
related3, then the effect of my physical presence in my dances is to contribute unique
elements of subjectivity. I produce a resistance to Rolnik’s “ready made” subjectiv-
ity in my dances by particularizing, or materializing, the discussion. For example,
Kim’s Style Guide for the Kinaesthetic Boffin (Vincs 2001) brings together a set of subjec-
tive elements; my dancing body, a particular medical history, a set of assumptions
about dance techniques, and a set of movement material, to produce a delirium in
which the potential malleability of the body to change is in tension with its material-
ity which limits physical change. The dance provides no answer to this tension, but
addresses it by particularizing the discussion. That is, it combines a unique set of
subjective elements to produce a dance-d and written desiring machine that presents
a uniquely structured subjective assemblage that plugs into this tension.
Outcomes
I began this Chapter by saying that I wanted to suggest a research methodology
in which dancing and making dances becomes a space or a substrate within which
to think about dance. My own research process led me on a journey from imagin-
ing that my dance practice could be described and theorised in writing to devis-
ing a methodological re–situation of writing in relation to dancing. I discovered a
complexity and heterogeneity in my dance practice that drove me to adopt Deleuze
and Guattari’s philosophy to envisage a dance—writing—desiring machine in which
dancing and writing function together, on the same epistemological level, rather than
one translating or representing the other. I also came to re–constitute subjectivity in
dance as a process of individuation and assemblage that challenges the sale of capi-
talised “ready-to-wear” identities by producing an individual, physically unique and
material set of meanings.
These two outcomes of my research, one a methodological shift and the other a
danced intervention in the production of subjectivity, made it inevitable that I would
see dancing as a process for thinking about dancing. I came to see the fallacy in the
attempt to translate, not just dance, but anything, be it writing or theory or history.
There is no translation. There are only connections to be made with other things,
both like and non–like. Whether I write, or whether I dance, I produce by assembling
a group of functional elements around me. I don’t translate, relate, or enumerate
anything. When I write, I don’t translate my dances but I create a new trajectory or
line of flight. Ontologically, the dance might generate a written discussion, but the
discussion always goes further than the original dance as other subjective elements,
cultural tropes and histories impinge upon the discussion. When I dance, I don’t
translate some pre–existing idea I had about making dances. My body and my his-
tory come with me, but I graft them onto new systems of meaning, new elements of
subjectivity, and new discourses that have no axiomatic consistency.
With this kind of understanding of dancing, dancing and thinking about dancing
become actions that function with each other, connected to each other to form a
thinking–dancing machine. There is no primacy of one activity or the other. The
dances became an essential substrate or ground within which to think about dance.
The outcomes are the dances themselves and also the thinking about dance that was
done by making and writing about the dance. Making dances became a methodol-
ogy for thinking about dance, not in the sense of the dance being an object to be
observed (poked, prodded, documented and interpreted), but in the sense that the
dancing functions with analysis and writing.
What did this methodology allow me to do? In developing an exegesis of my
dance works, it allowed me a freedom of writing within which I found I was able
to articulate the complexity of the dance works much more fully than a traditional
analysis would have done. I did undertake the exercise of writing a series of tradi-
tional analyses, which examined the historical dance context my work was made in,
the notions of subjectivity extant in those historical and aesthetic traditions, and how
my dances functioned in synergy and in opposition to those conventions. I then
re–mapped my dances in written deliriums which allowed me to reorganize and, in
Deleuze and Guattari’s terms: de–stratify those analyses and re–assemble them in
new ways.
Perhaps the significance of the work can best be described by the way in which
this understanding of methodology enabled me to place the unique physicality of
my choreographic practice at the centre of a discourse about subjectivity. This is to
insert the material and the particular into a discussion about subjectivity: which is
perhaps the point of making a delirium about subjectivity that is productive, can be
used, but not reported or translated. This is to present knowledge itself in a mate-
rial and specific way.
This is also the crux of the whole debate about studio art as research. Art practice
is able to produce knowledge in a unique, material and specific way. It is not a ge-
neric kind of knowledge that can be mapped onto other fields or other works of art.
This is the whole problem with art analysis that seeks to define categories to neatly
organise artworks and must, in order to preserve its nomenclature, ignore the pro-
found epistemological disjunctions that can occur between artworks of seemingly
similar aesthetic, genre and content.
The typical modus operandi for studio practice in dance, and perhaps in any art-
form, is to produce knowledge, identity and subjectivity in a unique material way.
In the context of the picture Rolnik (2002) presents of capitalism as a system that
captures and commodifies identity itself, the unique work of art can be understood
as not just a welcome, but a necessary philosophical intervention.
8
A CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN
PRACTICES
Stephen Goddard
What characterises creative arts research practice in universities that offer doctoral
degrees is the requirement not only to undertake a substantial practical project, but
also a reflective exegesis that contextualises the methodologies and significant con-
tributions of the research. The specific components of the exegesis are defined by
each institution and re-negotiated by each candidate according to differing empha-
ses. Fortunately, and by design, the function of each candidate’s exegesis can be re-
defined in relation to the practice it seeks to elucidate. And whilst the requirement
to also present a substantial written component can initially appear as a burdensome
or daunting prospect for those unfamiliar with the processes of critical reflection
—to those who recognise its reflexive possibilities—the exegesis in parallel with the
creative work of the project can provide another arena of creative practice. In this
respect, the outcomes of both a creative arts-based project and its exegesis can be
presented as significant contributions to knowledge in the field. Moreover, a third
creative space opens. By interchanging and integrating the practice with the exegesis,
it may be possible to generate a combined and reflexive research praxis. This chapter
examines aspects of the practice-exegesis relationship with reference to my experi-
ence of undertaking and completing my doctoral research at Deakin University. I
am, therefore, speaking from a position of having confronted and struggled with the
practice-exegesis relationship from inside the playing field.
The result of my doctoral research was presented as a creative work and an ex-
egesis. The research project was an autobiographical video production entitled, Lorne
Story. This video production was in the form of a video postcard—an epistolary
video reporting on the creative research practice as a creative video-specific research
practice. The accompanying exegesis was also in the form of a report—a written let-
ter reflecting upon the creative video research practice, and reflecting upon itself—as
a creative written research practice. This approach suggested that both the practice
and the exegesis are creative research practices—both separately and together. In my
research, the relationship between the practice and the exegesis also developed as a
correspondence between practices.
Just as each candidate designs their research project, it is possible (within enlight-
ened institutions) for creative arts researchers to re-interpret and make sense of the
specified requirements of the exegesis. The first principle, the first permission, I
established for myself, was that the practice-exegesis relationship needed to be re-
negotiated. I wanted (and needed) the exegesis to fulfil the Deakin University higher
degree by research requirements for creative arts-based practice. This included a
description of the research project, an account of the procedures and techniques
utilised, a comparative contextualisation in relation to the fields of inquiry, and a
series of contributions based on the findings and conclusions. I also wanted the
exegesis to be something other than separate from the creative practice. I needed to
find a way in which the overall research process (as a narrative) could be considered
as creative, systematic and based on generative research practices. As such, one of
the methodological aims of the doctoral research was to focus on the possibilities of
utilising video as a creative research practice, and the ways in which an exegesis could
also function as a creative and reflexive research practice.
The Personalised Postcard

As a hybrid form of postcard, Lorne Story combines photography and moving im-
ages with a soundtrack that mixes composed music, location sounds and a person-
alised vocal address. As a video production, it functions in a variety of ways. It is a
form of video postcard directed towards a specific addressee, a self-directed version
of a director’s video notebook, and for both myself and external audiences, it is also
a reflexive travelogue and autobiographical video memoir. At each turn in the road,
Lorne Story changes its form but retains its overall character as a personal commu-
nication.
After completing the editing of the video practice and at almost the final stage of
writing the exegesis, I stumbled upon an image that seemed to not only reflect on
my practice, but also its relationship with the exegesis. I was presented with a fam-
ily photograph that was formed into a postcard. (Courtesy of the Goldman family,
1934.)
On first seeing this personalised postcard, I was initially fascinated in the way it
functioned as a poignant family narrative. I then realised that there were formal and
structural similarities between this personalised postcard and the ways in which Lorne
Story functioned as a video postcard. Both feature separate spaces in which a per-
sonalised image forms the basis of a personalised form of address, and both were
designed to be sent as a form of family correspondence. The personalised postcard
was reinforced with cardboard and utilized a similar design to conventional post-
cards, with an area on the reverse side for writing, an address and a stamp. Lorne Story
as a video postcard used a series of video tracks as layers for still and moving images,
and an audio-track that featured music, location sound and a vocal address. Primarily
at the beginning of the production, there is a direct address to the camera oriented
towards a single addressee. Throughout the vocal and visual narration, there are
reminders that the video postcard is addressed towards a family member across the
waves. In this regard, Lorne Story also functioned as a gift and a sharing between fam-
ily members across distances. The personalised images include the direct address to
the camera, scenes recorded at family events, handheld dramatised (re-)enactments,
A CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN PRACTICES 115
Family photograph as a postcard, 1934.
and photographs depicting familial beach holiday scenarios. These scenes are an-
notated by a personalised vocal address that parallels but never quite meets with the
images. The vocal track is neither intended nor does it function as an explication of
the images. (In much the same way, the exegesis does not function as an explanation
of the creative practice.) Both technically and conceptually, the sounds and images
are on separate tracks. This separation is similar to the traditional postcard in which
photographic narration occupies one space and written narration another.
Being presented with this personalised postcard from 1934 was akin to being in-
troduced, for the first time, to a relative I never knew existed. It also provided a
comparative allegory for what I was seeking to develop with my own video postcard.
On one side, personal imagery, on the other, a space for reflection and an address.
In Lorne Story, site-specific reflections were improvised, written and performed as
both an interior monologue and as an external address. Discovering a parallel prac-
tice such as the personalised postcard brought into focus a series of correspond-
ences that encapsulated the reflexive relations between images and words within the
practice, and the creative interplay that also existed between the practice and the ex-
egesis. Within the practice, Lorne Story operated as a video-specific postcard, in which
sounds, images, words and meanings were in transit. Throughout the research proc-
ess, the relationship between the practice and the exegesis continued as a circulating
exchange. It became a dialogue between written words and recorded images. Within
these transitional movements, lay the possibility of drawing connections between
practices—between writing and video, and between the practice and the exegesis.
One of the assumptions associated with the practice-exegesis relationship is that
the exegesis is necessarily fortified by theoretical “underpinnings” or “groundings”.
These terms are, in themselves, words that conjure anchors and only the semblance
of stability. The association of the written exegesis with the expectations of theo-
retical discourse is especially poignant in relation to the appointment of doctoral ex-
aminers, more familiar with the submission of a traditional written thesis. However,
even for those unfamiliar with the concept of the exegesis, the issues surrounding
the practice-exegesis relationship continue in the wake of previous debates concern-
ing the integration of theory and practice. The goal, as ever, continues towards a
hybridised activity of praxis. In relation to the mis-recognition and valorisation of
theory (over practice), Gilles Deleuze articulates the plea to, once again, reconsider
the collapse of the theory/ practice dichotomies because:
Philosophical theory is itself a practice, just as much as its object. It is no more

abstract than its object. It is a practice of concepts, and it must be judged in the
light of the other practices with which it interferes. (Deleuze 1989: 280)
Deleuze properly includes and summons those who consider themselves as either
practitioners or theorists to a joint effort towards generating interactive dialogues
between conceptual practices. In this respect, terms and labels such as “practitioner”
and “theorist” are useful only as they become more indistinct and interchangeable.
During the process of my doctoral research project, I was more prepared to dis-
pense with singular notions such as researcher, theorist and practitioner, preferring
instead to adopt the “reflective practitioner” model used in the creative arts.
As a writerly practice, the exegesis can be as creative, fictive, and as full of playful
conjecture as the other creative practice (or practices) it seeks to elucidate. It was for
this reason that I decided to construct my exegesis as both a reflection on the video
practice and its own creative practice. Both were forms of epistolary correspond-
ence—letters, fashioned as corresponding research reports—directed towards a spe-
cific addressee and also directed towards a series of unknown (and unknowable)
addressees. As letters, they sought to encourage a sympathetic exchange.
As a written document, the letter has historical associations with a culture of
scholarship, erudition and learning. The tradition of sharing and disseminating aca-
demic research is based on the exchange of letters between peers. Initially, private
letters were exchanged between colleagues as a form of communication, in order to
test theorems and theses. Eventually these letters between peers entered the public
domain through publication within scholarly journals. To continue within this tradi-
tion, I designed both the video practice and the exegesis as an epistolary reportage.
This was in order to demonstrate that the practice could include its own exegetical
meta-narrative, and that the exegesis was also a critical and creative narrative, linked
to the practice it sought to report on. In both the practice and the exegesis, sym-
metries of correspondence echo.
As a practice, Lorne Story was a research correspondence in the shape of a video
postcard. As a hybrid form, the video postcard enacted a meeting or a dialogue be-
tween writing and video practices. The exegesis was also an epistolary correspond-
ence in the shape of a letter—a reporting on the origins and procedures of the
practice, with a comparative analysis of its findings in relation to a series of intersect-
ing contextual fields of research. Both were reflexive practices that foregrounded a
meta-narrative critique.
The methodological approach adopted throughout the research practice was one
of contextual comparison. As Deleuze suggests, ‘the only true criticism is compara-
tive … because any work in a field is itself imbricated within other fields’ (Deleuze
2000: 367).
My research was situated within and across the overlapping fields of autobiograph-
ical writing and subjective video practices. One of the aims and continuing concerns
of contemporary creative arts research practice is the attempt to develop appropriate
methodological strategies that link the exegesis and the research practice. This is part
of a wider research strategy that recognises and values the role of a reflective prac-
titioner within the process of a reflective practice (Schon 1995). Rather than relying
only on the written component of an exegesis to demonstrate a reflective process, it
can also be reflexively performed within the practice itself. For example, the first part
of Lorne Story presents a subjective story about and around the seaside township of
Lorne. In the second half, the videotape presents a reflexive analysis of the story, by
returning to the site to record (on camera) the process of analysis.
One of the distinct advantages of video technology (compared to film), is its abil-
ity to provide instant audio-visual feedback via direct monitoring. It is possible to
electronically see and hear what is being recorded whilst it is being recorded. With
film, and its reliance on chemical processing, there is an inbuilt delay mechanism.
Video also provides the possibility of replaying what was recorded in the same loca-
tion as it was recorded. The idea of using one camera to record what another camera
was replaying became the foundation of the meta-narrative in Lorne Story. Whilst the
first part of the video production features a re-enactment of a beach holiday surf-
ing accident, the second part includes a meta-narrative in which I sit on the shore
recording myself whilst watching and commenting on the previously recorded re-en-
actments. Both the re-enactments and the meta-narrative commentaries are recorded
at the site of the original adolescent incident.
The meta-narrative that occupies the second half of Lorne Story both questions
and adds annotations to the re-enactments and to my uncertain recollection of the
original events. The meta-narrative does not provide a coherent, explanatory master
narrative. It merely provides another perspective on the events surrounding my ado-
lescent fall from grace. After the passage of more than thirty years, an un-tethered
surfboard becomes a symbolic shield representing a slippery set of floating memo-
ries. The meta-narrative becomes another testimonial version and adds a few more
pieces to a jigsaw puzzle that remains incomplete.
By integrating a narrative with its meta-narrative monitoring and critique, Lorne
Story generated a series of fragmentary stories. Many of these stories were devel-
oped by alternating between a written and video version of a director’s notebook.
In this respect, both the video production and the written exegesis were two parts
of the same practice. I was attempting to trace the ways in which writing and video
technologies mediated and recorded my memories, stories, annotations and analyses.
To this end, I used the video camera as a form of memory detector, sweeping the
shoreline for lost trinkets and fragments of memory. Elements from this video ver-
sion of a field diary frequently found their way into the video production. They were
also included as source material for analysis in the written exegesis. Recollections
that originated as written notebook entries were also transformed into the script and
integrated into both the video production and the exegesis. Whilst the final doctoral
submission presented the creative project and the exegesis in two separate forms,
I always wanted the video production and the exegetical writing to be considered
as complementary corresponding practices. Both were epistolary reports generated
from video and written field diaries.
Through the process of annotation and combination, a form of reflective and
reflexive video exegesis was integrated into the video production. I was attempting to
present and integrate the reflexive processes of the practice-exegesis relationship by
including elements of the exegesis into the practice. This meant that the exegesis was
also the site for a creative epistolary narrative that reported on itself and the overall
research journey.
As a methodological strategy, it was useful to integrate the narrative of the re-
search process into both the practice and the exegesis. This was only possible by
considering and designing both as congruent creative practices. In particular, this
approach was based on highlighting the ways in which a video-specific practice can
generate and integrate a reflexive exegesis. It also recognized that the research proc-
ess of structuring and writing an exegesis is, itself, a narrative. The overall narrative
of the research process includes the story of the practice-exegesis relationship, and
the ways in which both the practice and the exegesis reflect upon the chronology of
the research process. Ultimately, a correspondence occurs between the practice and
the exegesis, as a series of interactive dialogues.
Resisting Explanation
Within my research practice, the exegesis was described in a number of ways: it was
a written accompaniment, a supporting document, and an elucidation. This was a
strategy to negate the assumption of explanation. Not everything in the video prac-
tice or the exegesis was explicable. It was neither necessary nor possible. As Walter
Benjamin suggests, it ‘is half the art of storytelling to keep a story free from explana-
tion as one reproduces it’ (Benjamin 1968: 89). In this respect, a storyteller performs
with the same technique as a magician. They both seek to reveal and conceal with
the same sweeping gesture.
Both the practice and its exegesis are narratives that resist complete explanation.
The role of an exegesis is not to attempt an analysis or critical interpretation of the
work, but to present a sense of the creative decision-making process(es) within the
context of the research practice. These workings in the margins are usually invis-
ible to an audience, and also somewhat invisible to the practitioner, if they remain
unexamined. As a form of behind-the-scenes reporting shaped as a letter, my own
exegesis was a continuation rather than a summation of the practice. I was unable
to consider the exegesis as an ending. An exegesis can neither exist as the final word,
nor an end to meanings.
Whether it is photographic or videographic, a letter or postcard is always accessi-
ble to multiple audiences, erasure, defacement and destruction in a postal or delivery
system that can never guarantee transmission. Whether it is its physical arrival as a
communiqué, or the passage of its intended or floating meanings, a postcard need
not reach its intended destination. As a video postcard, Lorne Story also refused to ar-
rive at either fixed destinations or guaranteed meanings. The meanings produced by
sounds and images can never be assured, because they are in a process of constant
oscillation between the audience and the screen. As with the video practice, the ex-
egesis developed a personal form to suit the research purposes. The development of
the structure and form of the exegesis, and its relation to the research project, was an
attempt to integrate a creative research project with an exegesis. The integration oc-
curred across a series of interactive inter-dependent practices: as epistolary forms of
correspondence, as a hybrid mix of subjective styles of address, as the consequence
of the written and videographic notebooks and as reflexive forms of reporting. Both
the practice and the exegesis also collaborated as interlocking travelogues, reporting
on the research trajectory. As an example, the Preface to the exegesis functioned in
much the same way as the opening direct address of the video practice. Both pro-
vided an opening movement—an overture to the journey that follows.
As a research practice, Lorne Story integrated reflective and reflexive stories, story-
tellers, and storytelling strategies within the practice. At no time was there a singular
privileged narrator, either inside the diegesis or outside the practice. As one of the
multiple subjectivities, I was at the same time a producer of meanings and produced
by the practice. In much the same way, the exegesis did not present singular or
conclusive explanations of the video practice. It was an extension of the practice,
contextualised across a series of fields. As with the video practice, the exegesis devel-
oped and generated its own narrative by utilising a reflexive methodology.
What makes visual, performative, and media arts-based research so distinctive are
the ways in which they conduct their enquiries beyond the sphere of written dis-
course. Inevitably, the ideas, methods and processes investigated through the prac-
tice of Lorne Story were not reducible to writing. As a video-specific production,
the audio-visual elements existed beyond written language. And when writing the
exegesis, I was not attempting to translate from sounds and images, but to cor-
respond in another mode. Nevertheless, the requirement to present the exegesis
using typeface and paper raised some troublesome issues. For example, how could
my known and unknown addressees refer, on the one hand, to the practice as a con-
tinuous video, and on the other, balance this with the written exegesis? What would
happen, if inadvertently or by habit, the addressees or the examiners decided to
initially pick up and then remain with the written exegesis rather than play the video
production? To provide audiences with the sense of how to navigate through the
materials, I used the Preface to set the scene, indicate the length and format of the
video production, and suggest a pathway. Although I recommended a specific linear
route that started with the Abstract, progressed to the video, and returned to the
exegesis, I knew that interruptions and cross-examination might occur. Ultimately, I
decided to integrate elements of the exegesis into the practice, and elements of the
practice into the exegesis.
Currently, with CD ROM, DVD and the computer as a site for delivery and pres-
entation, there are possibilities for specific forms of arts-based practice to combine
written, performed and audio-visual exegeses in a singular space of convergence.
Perhaps in the future, the role and form of the academic exegesis may well be trans-
formed with the development of new and appropriate forms of documentation and
presentation.
I have tried to suggest that one of the ways in which reflective practitioners
engaged in creative arts-based research can develop their practice, is by developing
reflexive methodologies that examine their own procedures and operating assump-
tions. As a form of storytelling, Lorne Story could not have been produced without
its video-specific technologies and a methodology that foregrounded subjective and
reflexive strategies. Similarly, the overall research orientation could not have been
developed without the existence of the practice-exegesis model and the possibility
of integrating one with the other. Whatever was developed or discovered through-
out the research process was generated not only through the practice, but also in the
relationship between the practice and the exegesis. In that space, it was possible to
consider video not merely as an extension of the photographic postcard, but as an
inimitable mode of communication in which sounds, images and writing contributed
to a distinctive form of research practice.
The possibility of imaginatively integrating a creative practice with a creative ex-
egesis may well be considered as one of the strategies that characterises and dif-
ferentiates creative arts-based research. As a distinctive methodological approach, it
also recognizes that the development of the practice-exegesis relationship generates
a mutual inter-dependence and a correspondence between practices.
Within our own practices, and in the spaces between the practice and the exegesis,
it is possible for a reflective practitioner engaged in a reflexive practice to generate a

dialogue and to address this discourse towards a community of peers. In Lorne Story,
the movement from reflective story to reflexivity and the movement between video
postcard and the written letter, was an attempt to not only link a cast and crew of
subjectivities, but to connect with the exegesis and with external subjectivities. As
ever, the desire was, and is, to find commonalities and correspondences, across the
waves.
Acknowledgements
Thanks to the Goldman family for permission to reprint the images.
9
CREATING NEW STORIES FOR

PRAXIS: NAVIGATIONS, NARRATIONS,
NEONARRATIVES
Robyn Stewart
Navigator, Navigations, Navigating

Research: It’s all about navigation really. In my country we drive on the left hand side
of the road. Our directions, rules, pathways and processes are geared to this activity.
When these are disrupted feelings of instability and insecurity pervade. To drive on
the right, my certainties as a driver are disrupted, I feel out of control, destabilised
and lost. To survive I went orienteering.
My senses are heightened to cater for a new approach; I establish new ways of
recognition and behaviour, I learn to read new cultural codes, I concentrate on find-
ing my way through a foreign process until eventually I naturalise this and become a
confident, comfortable driver again: on the wrong side of the road.
On a recent journey through Europe we developed a collaborative way to support
each other as we travelled, by creating new ways of mapping, new codes, languages,
customs and strategies. We asked questions, we observed acutely, we planned sys-
tematically. In our small car, our cultural space, we created a third space, a place of
hybrid practices that crossed cultural boundaries of language, visual codes, currency
conversions and national customs. We did this by associating these to our cultural
conventions, things we knew and understood, and translating them accordingly. Our
survival mantra became “What’s my name? What side of the road am I on? Where
am I going?”
Identifying Landmarks
By looking into the soul of another we often find ourselves delving just as
deep into our own private worlds of identity and place (Cowell 1997: 46).
As I grow as researcher, artist and teacher I have become acutely awareness of how
I have managed to recognise and navigate my learning processes and problem solv-
ing capacities. As a reflective practitioner (Alverson & Skolberg 2000, Bartlett 1989)
I believe that these negotiations and connections strongly underpin my pedagogical
praxis. So when the challenge to develop studies in research for the visual artist arose,
I brought to the task an awareness and mapping of my practices, understandings of
the studio and the classroom together with the need to see how others practice. I
began to ask artists about what they do and how they conceptualise their practice as
research. From these beginnings, courses have grown that explore processes for stu-
dio-based research in the visual arts. This process of collaboration is illustrated briefly
using extracts from stories by others who have worked with me in this process.
My conceptual foundations grew from an awareness of the fit between my knowl-
edge and practice in the studio and classroom, my experience in implementing tradi-
tional quantitative research methods and the challenging necessity, as a graduate stu-
dent, to construct and rationalise a qualitative methodology to best fit my research
project at that time. The outcome of this exploration became known as Neonarrative
Method (Stewart 1994, 1996). My research practice continues as a process of continu-
ous discovery, filled with correspondences and contradictions, intuition and surprise,
serendipity and discipline.
Having been trained in qualitative (Carr & Kemmis 1986, Connelly & Clandinin
1987, Eisner 1979, Goetz & le Compte 1984) and quantitative research methods and
processes in the 1980’s (Campbell & Stanley 1963), I initially learnt to see my practice
from a distance, speaking as an observer, looking at and on practice rather than ap-
proaching it from within. In line with prevailing calls for objectivity, my voice was at
worst withheld and at best muted in the process of reporting about other’s ways of
living as artists and teachers within their lifeworlds. Yet more recently, the resonance
of new methodological discussions (Lawrence-Lightfoot & Hoffmann Davis 1997,
Jeffries 1997) that urge researchers to recognise the subjective nature of research
and to position themselves clearly within the work, was something I embraced and,
I thought, adopted for my ongoing practice.
However, four years ago, the level to which I had naturalised the “objective” ap-
proach was brought home to me rather strongly following my presentation of a
research paper addressing the processes of neonarrative construction. A perceptive
student observed that my voice was silent throughout the paper. What a salient and
apocryphal moment! I was suddenly aware of a personal gap between my ideological
position and the actualities of my praxis. It became clear that, despite my claims for
centrality, I was actually writing out my position within the research process as artist,
researcher and teacher. This comment signalled my apocalypse and while I remain
convinced that the methods of neonarrative are useful to draw together ways we
talk about our practices as practitioner researchers, artists and teachers, I am also
conscious of the need to include myself in the storying.
I realise that the conceptualisation, design and development of the neonarrative
method was a pivotal process in my researcher development and that it continues
to inform the basis upon which are built my current understandings of the kinds of
research methods that are useful for me as artist and teacher. My approach to prac-
titioner-based research is to conceptualise it as critical, reflective, investigative praxis.
Praxis, for me, involves the crucial and inextricable meld of theory and practice.
Thus practitioner-based research is concerned with processes for theorising practice,
using appropriation, pastiche and collaboration as basic tenets.
In moving creatively into our practice we are fundamentally concerned to develop
CREATING NEW STORIES FOR PRAXIS 125
new knowledge, to challenge old beliefs and to speculate on the “what ifs” of our
concepts and processes. For the arts practitioner, whether studio or classroom based,
new knowledge is made in the context of and challenge to the history, theory and
practices of our relevant field. The research function for developing and extending
knowledge is judged on the outcome of the research, which synthesises, extends or
analyses the problematics of the discipline (Guba & Lincoln 1989). As one of my
research students, Chicako Urata has observed:
The process employed in creating my works of art usually comes from look-
ing, finding, arranging, thinking, researching, drawing and creating. The dif-
ficulty of handling the materials may reflect my life experiences in both Japan
and Australia. Experiences that were difficult in a cultural sense. I am looking
at the ‘possibility’ and ‘freedom’ of the installation (space), because there is
no boundary (limitation) in the space. When you face multiculturalism and
cultural difference, I don’t see the boundary or ending there, I believe that it
is a starting point. Experiences contribute to the development of personal
identity through recording and theorising aspects associated with these experi-
ences. My cultural identity is unique and complex. There are always two ways
of thinking, behaving, speaking and viewing. I express the characteristics in my
work of art. (Urata 1999: 46)
In a rapidly changing world of multiculturalism, post colonialism and globalisation,

notions of hybridity increasingly inform our praxis.
Plotting a Course
As an artist, researcher and teacher, I have long been made conscious of (and some-
times criticised for) my diverse and hybrid approach to praxis. As educator, studio
practitioner, theoretician and culturalist, I bring a many faceted approach to this field
(Nelson, Treichler & Grossberg 1991, Polanyi 1985). As a teacher with an initially
trained and practised pedagogy for grades one to twelve, I have a broad understand-
ing and interest in learning processes in the visual arts. These became highlighted
when as a young academic I worked between theory and practice and across fine arts
and art education. As a teacher of art educators, I learned to deal with adults learning
about the arts and their making, within a climate of adult uncertainty, lack of arts
literacy, and sometimes an antipathy towards the arts. As a teacher of artists, I con-
tinue to grapple with the nexus between theory and practice, provoking students and
colleagues to work as informed, inquiring and reflexive practitioners. Consequently,
my concerns are informed at many levels by processes for effective and meaningful
art education (Eisner 1979, Chalmers 1990, Goodson 1988).
While my work now explores the possibilities of research for the artist as studio
practitioner, it is framed by my activities as a teacher of artists. Through my teach-
ing, I approach practitioner-based research as a way of working, investigating and
theorising what it is to practice in the studio as researcher (Dissanayake 1990, Van
Maanen 1990, Turner & Bruner 1986). In this process, my classroom has become
synonymous with my studio, functioning as a laboratory for research (Weirsma 1995).

I see that my hybrid practice includes crossing over between spaces and places, ex-
ploring and practising in diverse and often foreign fields, retaining an excitement
about change and difference, practising simultaneously as artist/researcher/teacher.
My work reflects the outcomes of collaborations with artists and students. Its
process explores and suggests possibilities and sources for practitioner-based re-
search practices. It recognises that practices in the arts and education by their very
nature, are underpinned by structure and improvisation, order and creativity, experi-
ence and intuition. This approach draws heavily upon qualitative research methods
from perspectives and discourses of social science inquiry (Berger & Luckman 1981,
Carr & Kemmis 1986, Crites 1986, Goetz & le Compte 1984, Carlgren & Lindblad
1991). Through research and teaching, I work to delineate processes and methods
of inquiry with a blend of artistic resonance, literary principles and scientific rigour.
The emphasis lies in discovering and exploring alternative ways of conceptualising
and understanding research and its practices.
The scaffold for this approach to practitioner-based research, is to consider the es-
sences of traditional research models in order to understand and critique their scope,
breadth and parameters. In this way, we can become better able to seek out relevant
models for praxis, to appropriate terms and processes and to research knowledge-
ably within the field. The process is likened to a simulacra in the paradoxical sense of
being simultaneously the same and different to traditional and established research
models. Its emphasis is largely qualitative, demonstrating and playing with the inter-
connectedness between differing methodologies as a kind of intertextuality, a brico-
lage (Stewart 1994, 1996, Weinstein & Weinstein 1992, Brewer & Hunter 1989).
I see the nature of practitioner-based research as hybrid in that although it finds
its base in qualitative methods; its practices blur the boundaries of aesthetics and
experience in an effort to capture and reflect the complex dynamics involved in
the phenomenology of artistic practice (Marton 1981). The practitioner researcher,
whether artist or teacher, takes central place in seeking to uncover, record, interpret
and position, from an insider’s perspective and experience, the processes they use
within the context of professional contemporary practices in the field. Their stories,
when placed in historical, social and cultural contexts, form a neonarrative, a new
story shaped through autobiography as a portrait-of-self that mirrors and situates
their experience. This reflects a process for theorising practice. Helen Mayes pro-
vides illustration through an explanation of her artistic process:
When I draw and transfer the larger images from the smaller ones, I am
not merely enlarging each drawing. I am rediscovering the lines and all of
the marks associated. I am always beginning afresh … to make something
unfamiliar familiar. Research is about finding, not searching. My theory has
been about finding answers to questions regarding my practice. The collection
and analysis of data describe all the problems, revelations, mistakes, thoughts,
highs, lows and regrets involved. My studio time seems to be constantly filled
with tests and challenges which naturally needed to be solved. The materials
and processes cause the friction and influence the outcome. My actual process
of drawing has its own system of dialogue too. Not only that, but, I produce a
dialogue when working with the materials. (Mayes 2000: 41)
The relationships between studio and theory form meaning-rich partnerships. They
resonate within and across our fields, as arenas for presentations of credible and
compelling stories. These stories address processes for exploring the aesthetic, em-
pirical (experience-based) and ethical dimensions of what it is to practise in the stu-
dio as artist, musician, writer, performer, dramatist, dancer, teacher (Chatman 1981).
These are processes of border crossings that come together as bricolage. The result-
ing stories create a third space by melding theory and practice into a neonarrative, a
new story that is different or richer than those that had gone before.
Intersections and Roundabouts

The pathways of my practice recognise and conceptualise the phenomenological
and autobiographical nature of studio-based research in the arts. From these grew a
many-faceted approach based in bricolage. This is a process of looking more closely
at the practices and positions of artists as researchers while identifying avenues of
appropriation from a variety of qualitative research methods (Weinstein & Weinstein
1992, Stewart 1994, 1996). Its process hopefully reflects something of the enigmatic
artistry of the essence of image production, reception and transmission. Such an
eclectic approach is in keeping with visual arts practise for the artist, teacher and
viewer.
“Bricolage” is a term that offers a way to describe what we do. Here it refers to
approaches to research that use multiple methodologies. These consist of a pieced
together, close-knit set of practices providing solutions to a problem in a concrete
situation. The construction changes and takes new forms as different tools, methods
and techniques are added to the puzzle. For example, the methodology of cultural
studies is a bricolage that is pragmatic, strategic, self-reflexive practice. In creating a
bricolage, the bricoleur appropriates available methods, strategies and empirical ma-
terials or invents or pieces together new tools as necessary. The choice of research
practices depends upon the questions asked. The questions depend on their context,
what is available in that context, and what the researcher can do in that setting (Wein-
stein & Weinstein 1992).
A bricoleur is familiar with and works within and between competing and overlap-
ping perspectives and paradigms. To do so, they read widely and become knowledge-
able about the many interpretive paradigms that can be brought to a problem. The
possibilities are vast and reflect the diverse ways of artistic practices. Research mod-
els to draw on include Feminism, Marxism, Cultural Studies, Constructivism, which
may encompass processes of phenomenography, grounded theory, visual analysis,
narratology, ethnography, case and field study, structuralism and poststructuralism,
triangulation, survey and other research approaches.
As you see, I am arguing that if we are going to play in the field of research we
need to understand many research methods. We need to appreciate that each has
limits and strengths in order to make a fit between the models selected and the
particular needs of the paradigm under investigation. We need to use research as
an interactive process shaped by our personal histories, gender, social class, biogra-
phy, ethnicity and race. The resulting bricolage will be a complex, dense, reflexive,
collage-like creation that represents the researcher’s stories, representations, under-
standings and interpretations of the world and the phenomena under investigation.
This bricolage will connect the parts to the whole, stress meaningful relationships
that operate in the social worlds and situations studied.
Bricolage is hybrid praxis. It presents an approach that places the researcher’s dis-
course and practices within another space, between artist and product, producer and
audience, theory and practice so that it becomes the space for reflection, contempla-
tion, revelation. The bricoleur is positioned within the borderlands, crossing between
time and place, personal practice and the practice of others, exploring the history
of the discipline and it’s changing cultural contexts. Bricolage enables us to collage
experience, to involve issues of knowledge and understanding, technology, concept,
percept, skill and cultural and discipline experience. The bricoleur appropriates as-
pects of research methodologies which best suit the task at hand, travelling between
various research disciplines in an attempt to build the most appropriate bridge be-
tween aesthetics and experience through processes of production documentation
and interpretation. The bricoleur is seeking to explore, reveal, inform and perhaps
inspire by illuminating aspects of insider praxis within their field. As Jill Kinnear
explains:
[Visual] research deals with and intensifies elements of research and language
that have always been part of the practice of an artist. In the studio I found I
was constantly trying to reconcile images, beliefs, facts and ideas, resulting in
almost permanent turmoil. (Kinnear 2000: 42)
I am concerned also, to bring together practice and research as purposeful prac-

tice. This is to do with creating intentional meaning through a process of rigorous
planning, documentation, interpretation, analysis and storying. These processes are
underpinned by constant emphasis on the ongoing and critical dialogues between
studio and theory, process and product, that are crucial for practitioner-based re-
search. Emphasised is the rigour and discipline of creating art, and the imagination,
skill and foresight that enrich the research of the bricoleur.
Orienteering Lifescapes
The important issue here is where to begin? Where does the emphasis for practi-
tioner-based research lie? As practitioners we have a strong base in autobiography
as a means of linking art and life. Not only does autobiographical method give us
voice, it enables us to write aspects of our lives in a special kind of way (Butt 1985,
Plath 1987, Denzin 1989, Elbaz 1987, Goodson 1988, Hawke 1996). Its methods
enable us to explore of the variances of decision making within our field and the
diversity of creative experiences. Autobiography is a qualitative application, which
enables us to consider influences and meaning and their roles in collecting the kinds
of data necessary to explore and demonstrate personal knowledge. Autobiographical
method enables a personal investigation of the self: self-research, self-portrait; self-
narrative. Deborah Mitchell elaborates this aspect further:
The stitches and embossing I use to create my work become spontaneous nar-
ratives. In my work the stitches and embossing tell the story though the story
is more like a conception of feelings and fleeting thoughts than a particular
figurative image. Each small piece is part of a memory. (Mitchell 1999: 18)
Autobiography enables the practitioner to apprehend artistic practice by revealing

personal experience, in the context of life stories, as the basis of research. It makes
rationalisation possible by the revelation of personal reflection, interweaving self-
consciousness with experience. Thus the researcher becomes the principal investiga-
tor of their professional endeavours. Autobiographical method describes a way to
explore the practitioner and their concepts involving the self, identity, history, time,
narrative, interpretation, experience and knowledge. It allows us to attend to issues
that give meaning to our thoughts and actions as practitioners by picturing personal
experience as a way of understanding aspects of reality. Through it, we can system-
atically take slices of our lives.
By using (auto)biography as personal history, and viewing events within an histori-
cal context, we are able to better understand a personal situation by bringing forward
prior, related experience. Consequently, the composition of biographical material
presents a way of encouraging reflexivity in studies about the visual arts and art edu-
cation. The process uncovers aspects of personal and cultural influences from fam-
ily, nature, educational and social conditions, and material things. Such an approach
provides a foundation and reference to explain why people act the way they do:
This is about who is speaking. You or me? The call of the void and the voice
of the artist. It is not a verbal language. It is the unknown (but very known).
It is expression. Someone calls me and I reply. Wordless, but with something
to say. I have discovered how to embrace the void without exposing it to too
much light. Others have too.
Breathe in breathe out.
It is possible to explore the nature of the muse without articulating it in lan-

guage that is detrimental. (Prescott 2000: 34)
It is important to realise that while researchers use biography and autobiography

to prompt reflection they rely on the subjective verbal and written expressions of
meaning that result. Consequently the languages of (autobiography cannot be taken
as simply windows into the “real” world of “real” interacting participants. The lan-
guages used reflect the imaginative bricolage of methods people use to rearrange
truths to create texts. Thus, autobiographical statements can be presented as a mix

of fictional and non-fictional accounts of lived experiences over time.
Tracing New Stories

The process of neonarrative offers a way to investigate and reveal the many different
ways our lived experiences can be described within a cultural scene. It offers a way to
link theory with culture and contemporary studio and classroom practice. Neonar-
ratives describe the spaces between and the crossovers that link practice and theory.
Their process and construct enables the exploration, explanation and presentation
of insider views as authentic ways to understand what seem to be changing practices
within the field. Neonarrative method is used to develop new stories to account for
the cultural conditions that surround and mediate contemporary art and education,
teaching and learning. These tales from the field can be gathered from a number of
participants using and blending their biographical stories (Smith 1994) to create an
inter-text of experience, or as autobiography to represent the practitioner as resident
expert. In either case it offers an interdisciplinary socio-cultural research framework,
understood in terms of the contemporary theoretical contexts that provide the so-
cio-cultural dimensions of the study.
Neonarrative method creates a bricolage of processes that centre on the gathering
of data reflecting perspectives from players within the field. The research method
employs reflection and phenomenography, in which interdisciplinary notions of in-
terpretation, description and comparison are engaged. The approach is useful in that
it moves beyond individual facts to perceive general patterns, among existing links,
from which to infer broad characteristics. Such an interdisciplinary approach offers a
way to link art, teaching and life by taking into account current knowledge in relevant
and related fields. It is oriented towards people’s ideas about the world and their ex-
periences of it. It models one way to approach the task of identifying, constructing
and situating methods for research using links and pathways, the bricolage, involved
in packaging the components of a process for research.
Neonarrative method presents a process for analysing what actually happened
according to the people involved. The narratives collected become the tools from
which knowledge is built (Nespor & Barylske 1991). The experiences, approaches
and responses of individuals are recorded and documented and analysed for their
unique or shared qualities. Perceptions, values, insider stories, experiences and ac-
counts inform the materials collected. It is a collaborative process and can be used
with clusters of participants or as self-research where the supporting stories are
found among published writers, artists and educators whose words, images and in-
terpretations add meaning and context to the issues concerned.
The Neonarrative approach is guided by narratology, the study of stories. This
is a qualitative method that offers an interpretive reconstruction of an aspect of a
person’s life. The resulting neonarrative is concerned with developing a plausible
meaning-giving account that blends the personal histories of the people concerned
with the social histories of their field. This is a process that theorises praxis.
Narratives may be interpreted as essential aspects of social life that enable the
passing on of knowledge without being necessarily concerned with the legitimacy of

such knowledge (Spence 1982, Van Maanen 1988). They are essentially tales of the
field with a focus on the personal everyday nature of experience of those involved.
Important themes identified within the studies can be explored to uncover, interpret
and reconstruct significant events that have contributed to the framing of particu-
lar aspects of activity in people’s lives. A new story (neonarrative) is constructed
when the processes that inform the conditions under investigation are theorised and
reconceptualised. To do this requires a plurality of approaches designed to enable
such a reconceptualisation. This bricolage of approaches is then situated by infor-
mation gathered from the field. This information may be gathered from history or
theory books and articles, personal journals, letters, artworks, catalogues, conversa-
tions, observations and other sources.
Mapping a Neonarrative
The research sequence for the construction of neonarratives incorporates
(auto)biographical data and collected texts. These two types of account are storied
within the contemporary world. This kind of investigation forms an empirical study
in that it is designed to observe reality, treating the participants as natural philoso-
phers, embedded in a cultural system and critical of it. It is an attempt to look at the
world as people experience it, and to hear it through their narratives, tracing how
experience modifies reality. The storytellers focus on key events or experiences in
their artistic development or teaching experiences that they feel have strongly shaped
their actions. These stories serve as elements for the construction of a neonarrative
that consolidates yet recognises differences within it.
There are five phases in this process. These involve identification of the research
method, the establishment of the collaborative process, the collection, transcrip-
tion and review of data (biographical, theoretical, visual, case studies and or other
forms), analysis of the data and synthesis into neonarratives. Each phase accesses
the autobiographies, stories and other data in a way that is independent, sequential
and based on temporal logic.
The data are first transcribed and sorted into salient themes relating to the litera-
ture before being systematically structured into narratives constructing and illustrat-
ing the experiential quality and explanations within the environmental, cultural and
social scenes where the action occurs. A further analysis organises the data into
clusters of thoughts. These initial steps provide the essential materials that define
the emergent themes.
A thematic approach to the content and narrative construct is used to uncover, re-
construct, organise and highlight the emerging stories and relevant anecdotes. Each
theme is used hermeneutically to deconstruct the stories being studied. Themes
enable the segmentation of data into categories of phenomena that form chunks
or clusters of information. The data can then be further categorised substantively,
relating to particular persons or sites, or theoretically, in relation to particular types
or aspects of the social process. Interactions identified among and between themes
through the accounts of participants add to notions of the inter-subjectivity and
wider accessibility of the narrative. In recognising that we are each culturally located
the attitudes and sentiments transmitted by culture are viewed as the framing devices
which shape our knowledge and interactions in the lifeworld.
Relevant statements made in support of each of the themes are selected to con-
tribute to each narrative. At the completion of the initial selection and data entry
process, each narrative is carefully edited to create as coherent a statement as possi-
ble. At the completion of each thematic story, a narrative reduction is created, encap-
sulating the main threads of the story. These reductions are then used to create the
summary narrative at the end of this stage of the analysis. The final phase produces
the neonarratives as an amalgam of data and theory to create new stories that are
different or richer than those that had gone before. These emerging stories can then
be used persuasively to support and reveal the work we do.
Approaching a Destination
Neonarrative method can be used to create as a third space, a storying place that
links practice and theory. It is there that the experiences and knowledge of the prac-
titioner can be compared and positioned among the theories from the field that
frame the actions of the people involved. Taken into account, is the human element
that influences our understanding of aspects of our world. In a sense, neonarrative
method illustrates a phenomenographical approach to qualitative research that em-
braces numerous personal meanings and gives voice to experience. This is derived
from the context of direct experience, linking perceptions and interpretations of
reality with meaning structures. Its construct is an enabling process to provide dis-
tinctive insights linking the individual and their socio-cultural environment.
The experience of developing the neonarrative method has been a journey, a proc-
ess of navigation, of learning to consider and articulate my praxis in research in
meaningful ways. The journey has been challenging and at times confronting and the
outcomes have convinced me that understanding processes for researching our own
practice within the contexts of our field is a revealing and empowering process:
It is in the studio that all work becomes a realisation, and not without hiccups
and practical dilemmas. One idea or concept may work wonderfully on paper
and in the mind, and may have pages to back it up theoretically, yet it may fail
horribly in the studio. It is your practical work, the “final” result of your re-
search that is on show. It must be struggled with and manipulated so it works
both mentally and visually. So what it looks like and what it means has a com-
mon ideal. It is when the written and the theory dances with the practical and
the visual, creating work which not only has importance and meaning but also
validation. (Plowmann 2000: 35)
My argument linking artist/researcher/teacher centres on the notion that if we, as

practitioners, can understand and situate our practice, then we own the practice. We
can use the notion of research as a way to develop better understandings of the
changing and significant roles of artist, artworks and agency in this rapidly chang-
ing world. Perhaps this is a way to enhance the ability of our students and ourselves
through the process of collaboration, to move forward as effective, informed and
prepared practitioners. To be an aware, knowledgeable and articulate practitioner
surely is an enabling paradigm.
Acknowledgements
My thanks to my colleagues, students and fellow explorers Jill Kinnear, Adrian
Cowell, Nick Plowmann, Helen Mayes, Christine Prescott, Katrina Laurie, Debo-
rah Mitchell, Chikaco Urata and Bridget Boville, collaborators all, whose research
endeavours over the past four years have taught me much about practitioner praxis
in the arts.
10
FOUCAULT’S ‘WHAT IS AN AUTHOR’:

TOWARDS A CRITICAL DISCOURSE OF
Estelle Barrett
A vexed issue for many artistic researchers is related to the need for the artist/re-
searcher to write about his or her own work in the research report or exegesis. In the
creative arts, the outcomes that emerge from an alternative logic of practice are not
always easy to articulate and it can be difficult to discuss the work objectively given
the intrinsically emotional and subjective dimensions of the artistic process. How
then, might the artist as researcher avoid on the one hand, what has been referred
to as “auto-connoisseurship”, the undertaking of a thinly veiled labour of valorising
what has been achieved in the creative work, or alternatively producing a research
report that is mere description or history? 1
I suggest that a way of overcoming this dilemma is for creative arts researchers to
shift the critical focus away from the evaluation of the work as product, to an under-
standing of both studio enquiry and its outcomes as process. I will draw on Michel
Foucault’s essay ‘What is an author’ to explore how we might move away from art
criticism to the notion of a critical discourse of practice-led enquiry that involves
viewing the artist as a researcher and the artist/critic as a scholar who comments on
the value of the artistic process as the production of knowledge.
In adopting such an approach, practitioner researchers need not ignore or ne-
gate the specificity of studio enquiry, including its subjective dimension and those
emergent methodologies, which I have argued earlier in this book, constitute the
generative strength that distinguishes practice as research from more traditional ap-
proaches. In order to elaborate the relationship and the need for a balanced focus
between the more distanced approach made available through Foucault’s account
of author function and these intrinsic aspects of artistic enquiry, I will turn later, to
Donna Haraway’s notion of “situated knowledge” (1991 1992). In her critique of
the scientific method and what she views as its false claim to objectivity, Haraway
suggests that scientific approaches to research are implicated in social construction-
ist accounts of knowledge that result in the effacement of the particularities of lived
experience from which situated knowledge emerges. To ground this discussion in
the specificity of practice, I would also like to consider the making of Pablo Picas-
so’s Demoiselles d’Avignon, and to set up a hypothetical scenario in which we recast
Pablo Picasso the artist, as Picasso the researcher—one who is responsible for both
the studio work and the accompanying scholarly discussion of it.
Discourse as Practice
A key aspect of Foucault’s conception of discourse is that it refers not only to lan-
guage, but to language and practices that operate to produce objects of knowledge.
Foucault was concerned not only with understanding the particular historical con-
texts that allow certain regimes of truth to prevail at any time, but also with the appa-
ratuses or discursive formations—webbed connections that link knowledge, power,
institutions, regulations, philosophical and scientific statements, administrative and
other practices—that regulate conduct, and support or determine what counts as
knowledge. In this context, since human subjects can only work within the limits of
discursive formations and regimes of truth, the idea that individuals are the primary
source of meaning tends to be negated or rendered invisible. Foucault contends that
whilst things may have material existence in the world, they cannot have meaning
outside of discourse (Foucault 1972). Stuart Hall summarise Foucault’s ideas thus:
This subject of discourse can become the bearer of the kind of knowledge
which discourse produces. It can become the object through which power is
relayed, But it cannot stand outside power /knowledge as its source and au-
thor. (Hall 1997: 55)
These aspects of Foucault’s thought provide a backdrop for his conception of “au-
thor function” (Foucault 1991). I believe that an application of his elaboration of
this may help artist/researchers to achieve a degree of critical distance in the discus-
sion of their practice as research projects. It may also help practitioner researchers
to locate their work in the field of theory and practice both within and beyond the
specific field of creative endeavour and to identify the possible gaps in knowledge
that their research projects might address.
Whilst Foucault’s view of author as function rather than as individual consciousness,
opens up an alternative approach for practitioners to talk about their own work,
this requires a shift in conventional ways of thinking about artwork and the artist.
Foucault tells us that the understanding of author as function is often undermined
by a tendency to privilege more traditional notions of “the work” as an entity and the
artist as a unique creator of the work. Such a view prevents us from examining the
procedures and systems that allow a work to operate as ‘a mode of existence, circula-
tion and functioning of certain discourses within society’ (Foucault 1991: 108). The
“man-and-his-work” form of criticism still holds sway, refusing the idea of art and
art practice as an interplay of meanings and signifiers operating within a complex
system. Contemporary criticism still defines author in same way, insisting on a unity
of writing that neutralises or resolves contradictions. This applies equally to the
visual and other arts. Galleries and publishers operate as gatekeepers ensuring that
“inferior” works are removed from visibility, those that contradict the main body of
work are excluded and works written or made in different style are often removed.
In commentaries, references to the author’s death are frequently removed so that the
TOWARDS A CRITICAL DISCOURSE OF PRACTICE AS RESEARCH 137
author/artist/genius is bestowed an aura of timeless permanence and immortality.

Foucault questions the prevailing view of “author” as attribution, and of “the
work” as the discourse of an individual with a deep motive or creative power and
contends that such a view is a “psychologising” or a projection of operations or
procedures that allow a text/artwork to come into being and to circulate as discourse
(Foucault 1986: 111). Within the context of artistic research, adopting Foucault’s
definition of author-and-work as ‘mode of existence, circulation and functioning
of certain discourses within society’ requires us to consider not whether the work
is “good’ or “bad”, but to focus on the forms the work takes and the institutional
contexts that allow it to take such forms. In this context, “circulation” may refer
to the work’s audience and subject positions that the work may permit individuals
to occupy and “function” may refer to the social, ideological and other uses (and
abuses) to which the work may be put.
Let us consider for example, a rendering of the nude in painting—Picasso’s Demoi-
selles d’Avignon—to which I will return later in this chapter. Whilst the contribution
this work has made to modern painting is unquestionable; the work bears methodo-
logical, ideological and philosophical traces of many antecedents. For example, it
contains “intertextual” references to Ingres’ 1863 painting The Turkish Bath —and
if we are to take into account notions of idealisation in traditional nude painting,
we may go back even further in history to Plato. Leo Steinberg’s (1988) account of
this work suggests that Demoiselles emerged not solely, but largely from a series of
extrapolations and transgressions that took the Ingres’ work as one of its starting
points. By drawing on sketches from Picasso’s preparatory studies for the painting
and other examples of Picasso’s work, Steinberg’s account demonstrates that Picasso
was aware of the discursive and methodological fields through which his artistic
process was operating. Had Picasso been working within the context of practice-as-
research, the task of mapping these discursive fields would, in the first instance, have
fallen on the artist rather than the critic.
I am suggesting that Foucault’s notion of author function is a useful tool for
practitioners who choose to take on the dual role of artist/researcher. We cannot
be certain of all of Picasso’s motives and intentions, nor is it necessary for us make
such a claim. Indeed Picasso himself has commented, ‘A picture comes to me from
miles away: who is to say from how far away I sensed it, I saw it, I painted it? And yet
the next day I can’t see what I have done myself ’ (Chipp quotes Picasso 1968: 273).
Picasso’s comment points to the difficulty of articulating understandings of both the
processes and outcomes of creative production. An application of Foucault ideas on
author as function provides the artist/researcher with an analytical framework and a
partial solution to completing the task.
Let us turn from Picasso, to a further consideration of the context of practice
as research. Foucault’s terms “apparatuses”, “operations” and “procedures” read-
ily evoke an experimental and investigative scenario. More specifically, they can be
related to investigative methods. If we recall that Foucault’s “discourse” refers both
to language and practice, it is possible to relate the terms not only to the materials
and methods of studio enquiry, but also to conceptual considerations that must
be confronted in the design and implementation of the research project. Materials,

methods and theoretical ideas and paradigms may be viewed as the apparatuses, or
procedures of production from which the research design emerges. They are not the
sole invention of the individual artist/researcher as we have seen, but are forged in
relation to established or antecedent methods and ideas. Robyn Stewart has observed
in an earlier chapter of this book, how practitioner-based research involves consider-
ing the essences of traditional research models in order to understand, critique and
appropriate them according to need. ‘Its emphasis is largely qualitative, demonstrat-
ing and playing with the inter-connectedness between differing methodologies as a
kind of intertextuality, a bricolage’. Stewart’s notion of bricolage, which highlights
the relationship between material processes and discourse and the way in which crea-
tive practice operates intrinsically as a mode of enquiry, is not antithetical Foucault’s
ideas concerning author as function.
Engaging critically with aspects of Foucault’s account of author function provides
the practitioner researcher with an framework through which the artist researcher
can reflect, in a more distanced way, on how practice operates as knowledge pro-
duction, and how the outcomes of studio enquiry emerge in relation to established
knowledge and broader institutional discourses. In the closing section of ‘What is an
author’, Foucault presents a set of questions that, with appropriate application, con-
stitute a programme for critical reflection on the research process. He suggests that,
within the power/knowledge nexus, and where cultural production is so regulated by
institutional and other disciplinary regimes and apparatuses, it no longer makes sense
to focus on the author as the sole creator of meaning. A more generative analysis
would involve asking a different set of questions related to the contexts in which a
work might operate:
We would no longer hear the questions that have been heard for so long: Who
really spoke? Is it really he and not someone else? With what authority and
originality? And what part of his deepest self did he express in his discourse?
Instead there would be other questions, like these: What are the modes of
existence of this discourse? Where has it been used, how can it circulate, and
who can appropriate it for himself ? (Foucault 1991: 118-119).
Author Function
I would like to present a sketch of how Foucault’s ideas concerning author func-
tion may have more specific application or translation within the context of studio
enquiry. The table presented below is by no means exhaustive, but I hope will assist
artists in their discussion of the research process.
Foucault’s Author Functions Application in Practice as Research

Groups together and defines a certain The researcher identifies and assesses
number of texts/works according to their methodological, conceptual and other
homogeneity and filiation. (Foucault 1991: links in works produced in the current and
107) previous projects.
Differentiates and contrast works from The researcher traces the genesis of
works of others in order to authenticate ideas in his/her own works as well as
and show reciprocal explication. the works/ideas of others; compares
(Foucault 1991: 107) them and maps the way they inter-relate;
examines how earlier work has influenced
development of current work; identifies
gap/contribution to knowledge/discourse
made in the works.
Establishes relationships amongst texts in The researcher assesses the work in terms
terms of concomitant utilization. of the way it has extended knowledge and
(Foucault 1991: 107) how his/her own work as well as related
work has been, or may be used and applied
by others.
Characteristics of Works that Carry Author Function

Foucault outlines a number of characteristics of works that carry the author func-
tion. These can be applied to extend the framework for analysis and discussion of
the research. He describes these characteristics in the following way:
• They are objects of appropriation and can be used/applied by others;
• They guarantee the work a certain status so that it is received as having

validity;
• Such characteristics are not the spontaneous result of singular motive of an

individual, but are the outcome of specific and complex operations;
• They are linked to juridical and institutional systems that determine and
articulate the system of discourses;
• They do not affect all discourses in the same way at all times and in all types
of civilizations. (Foucault 1991: 108-110)
Without being too prescriptive, the characteristics that the author function bestows
on discourse can be extrapolated and applied as a critical method for evaluating
one’s own creative output as well as that of others. They provide a set of objective
criteria for grounding practice within the university research context and the general
field of research and for articulating possible applications of the outcomes of studio
enquiry. I’d like to stress that this approach can be used in ways that need not ef-
face what is particular and innovative in the practice as research project, but to test
particularities that emerge in relation to established theory and practice. Foucault,
himself, suggests that traditionally, discourse (writing and by extension, art) was not
viewed as a product, a thing, a kind of goods, but was understood as an act situated
in a field between the sacred and profane, the licit and illicit. This alludes to the
transgressive potential of discursive practices and texts, which in the past, according
to Foucault, subjected them to appropriation, and their originators to punishment.
It could be said that transgressive and revolutionary dimensions of creative practice
can still attach to discourses that contain the author function. However, we might
argue that today, they are often appropriated as “innovations” to be transformed and
commodified within the system of exchange and capital.
The Dispersed Selves of Author

Another useful notion in Foucault essay, is that of the “dispersed selves” of author.
He tells us that the author’s name is not related to whether it designates the self as
the subject (creator) of discourse. It does not refer purely to a real, singular indi-
vidual, but is trans-discursive and can give rise simultaneously to several selves and to
several subject positions that can be occupied by others (Foucault 1991: 107). How
might this be applied in the exegetical discourse of artistic research?
Let us return to the earlier discussion of Picasso’s Demioselles d’Avignon, We can
say that the trans-discursive dimension of the author function relates to the way in
which the author or artist and his or her work operate as bearers of discursive prac-
tices that are antecedent to the research context and which may also refer to several
paradigms or schools of thought. The notion of the dispersed selves of author
provides a springboard for reflecting on the multiple positions the researcher must
occupy in reporting and writing up of the studio process and its outcomes. The
table below indicates the way in which Foucault’s ideas about this aspect of author
function may be extended and applied as an aid to maintaining a more distanced and
critical approach to research writing.
Foucault’s Dispersed Selves Application in Practice as Research

The self that speaks in the preface and The researcher locating him/herself in the
indicates the circumstances of the treatise field of theory and practice in the literature
or the work’s composition (Foucault 1991: review.
112).
The self that makes generalisation that The researcher adopting an approach
may later be made or taken up by others and articulating the rationale for
who accept the same system of symbols methodological and conceptual
and constructs (Foucault 1991: 112). frameworks; the one who argues and
demonstrates and uses terms like “I
conclude”, “I suppose” as they relate to
the hypothesis and design of the project.
The self that peaks to tell the work’s The researcher discussing the work
possible meaning, the obstacles in relation to: lived experience, other
encountered, the results obtained and the works; application of results obtained;
remaining problems. This self is situated contribution to discourse; new/
in the field of already existing and yet to transgressive possibilities; obstacles
appear discourses (Foucault 1991: 112). encountered and the remaining problems
to be addressed in future research.
Founders of Discursivity
In his discussion of author, Foucault refers to a special group in which he plac-
es thinkers such Marx and Freud. He calls this group ‘founders of discursivity’
(Foucault 1991: 114) and suggests they are different from (for example) novelists or
artists who produce texts that in his view, only open the way for resemblances and
analogies. I believe the emergence of artistic enquiry as a research paradigm chal-
lenges this binary. Further, I am suggesting that practitioner-researchers might ap-
propriate Foucault’s ideas concerning foundational discourses as a set of additional
criteria for assessing the value of their own work and in doing so, may reveal some
of the limitations of Foucault’s position in relation to what constitutes a separation
of theory and practice and the privileging of particular modes of discourse in his
account of author.
Foucault characterises founders of discursivity the following way:
• They are not just authors of their own works, but produce the possibilities
and rules for the formation of other texts;
• They make possible not only analogies and resemblances, but differences
and divergences with respect to their own texts concepts and hypotheses;
• They make possible the creation of something other than their discourse,
but which nevertheless belongs to what they have founded;
• The acts they found are on equal footing with future transformations and
become part of the modifications made possible;
• The founding act can be reintroduced to validate and be validated by the

transformations. (Foucault 1991: 114-115)
The possible applications of these points for assessing the outcomes and signifi-
cance of research are be self-evident and as mentioned earlier, may well be applied
in artistic research to challenge Foucault’s classification.
How might Picasso’s Demioselles d’Avignon and critical commentaries on the work
help to illuminate and critique Foucault’s position? Let me turn now, to William
Rubin’s (1994) account of this work. Referring again to Picasso’s preparatory draw-
ings, Rubin suggests that the painting found its genesis and was an extension the
vanitas genre. He uses Erwin Panofsky’s iconological method to comment on the
symbolic significance of the medical student holding a scull in one of Picasso earlier
studies. He links this analysis to other symbolic elements in both the preparatory
studies and the completed work—as well as psycho-biographical accounts of Picas-
so’s life—to argue that the painting is an allegory concerning physical degeneration
and death (Rubin 1994: 58). Steinberg puts forward a different reading of the work,
(though what I am presenting here is simplification of this erudite essay for the
purpose of my argument). Steinberg’s analysis leads him to conclude that Picasso’s
painting is a refusal of traditional distanced, idealised and decorative renderings of
the nude in painting in favour of a direct confrontation with sexuality, or an immedi-
ate experience of the sexual encounter (Steinberg 1988). He draws on a vast body of
earlier commentary and refers to yet other artistic antecedents to extend this thesis:
The Demoiselles has been historicized and surrounded by a vast, varied ancestry.
The influences imploding on this great masterpiece have been found to include
not only Iberian and African art, to say nothing of Cézanne’s compositions of
bathers; we learned that they included Caravaggio’s Entombment, Goya’s Tres de
Mayo, Delacroix’s Massacre at Scio and Femmes d’Alger, and Ingres’ Turkish Bath.
(Steinberg 1988: 71)
So the list goes on. However, Steinberg declares (highlighting how cross-analysis
of different works by a single artist can be illuminating), ‘The best commentary on
Picasso is another Picasso’ (Steinberg 1988: 22). From Steinberg’s account, we may
safely deduce that Picasso must have been aware of at least some of the influences
mentioned and that the making of this painting must have involved sustained critical
engagement with philosophical and antecedents including those related to material
and technical demands of painting—in particular—painting of the nude. We can
further surmise that this task involved locating the work at hand in relation to those
discourses and testing his creative vision and lived experience against them. Howev-
er, on the basis of the way in which this work has ruptured and transformed thought
and practices and continues to validate and be validated in ongoing discourses and
practices, there may also be a case for placing Picasso within the category of “found-
ers of discursivity”.
In any event, I believe that application of author function and Foucault’s notion
of founders of discursivity can be a useful instrument for reflection and discussion
in the context of artistic research. It facilitates both historical analysis as well as the
task faced by artists of situating their own work in the broader field of theory and
practice. Moreover, the criteria that relate to founders of discursivity may act as use-
ful measures for considering the impact and significance of research outcomes.
But what of the artist’s subjective concerns and particularities of artistic research
not accounted for in Foucault’s framework? Foucault is not silent on the topic of the
subject or self in discourse. Indeed, his notion of author function is intended to give
us a better understanding of how the subject or self is constructed and positioned in
discourse, its points of insertion, functioning and dependencies on the system, and
how a subject emerges out of discourse. However, this account does not provide
an adequate consideration of the relationship between the particularities of lived
experience and discourse.
Situated Knowledge
Because creative arts research is often motivated by emotional, personal and sub-
jective concerns, it operates not only on the basis of explicit and exact knowledge,
but also on that of tacit knowledge. An innovative dimension of this subjective
approach to research lies in its capacity to bring into view, particularities of lived
experience that reflect alternative realities that are either marginalised or not yet rec-
ognised in established theory and practice. Foucault’s approach does not adequately
deal with the relational aspect of practice and how subjective agency is implicated in
the creation of discourse. As I mentioned in the introduction to this book, emerg-
ing discourses on the artistic process go some way to redressing this inadequacy. In
his work Material Thinking, Paul Carter (2004) helps to extend understandings of the
subjective and relational dimensions of the artistic process. He describes this process
as one that involves a decontexualisation from established or universal discourse to
instances of particular experience. In staging itself as an artwork, the particularity of
experience is then returned to the universal. Carter suggests that “material thinking”
specific to artistic research produces a record of the studio process as a means of
creating new relations of knowledge subsequent to production. Material thinking is,
in his own words, ‘a call to discursive arms’ (Carter 2004: 184). Also useful for under-
standing this emergent aspect of artistic research, and the dynamics of the circula-
tion of artistic products is Barbara Bolt’s notion of “materialising practices”, which
implies an ongoing performative engagement and productivity both at moments
of production and consumption (Bolt 2004). Bolt draws on Martin Heidegger, to
suggest how new knowledge emerges from human involvement with objects in the
world, as she notes in an earlier chapter of this book:
Heidegger argues that we do not come to “know” the world theoretically

through contemplative knowledge in the first instance. Rather, we come to
know the world theoretically only after we have come to understand it through
handling. Thus the new can be seen to emerge in the involvement with materi-
als, methods, tools and ideas of practice.
As I have elaborated in the introduction to this book, rather than constituting a

relationship between circulating discourses (Foucault) or image and image/text (that
is, between image and established discourse/theory), materialising practices constitute
relationships between material processes and text, of which the first iteration is neces-
sarily the researcher’s own self-reflexive mapping of the emergent work as enquiry. In
artistic research, a dialogic relationship between studio practice and the writing of
the creative arts exegesis is crucial to articulating and harnessing studio methodolo-
gies for further application beyond the field of creative arts so that the practice as
research extends the general field of research and is validated alongside other more
traditional forms of research derived essentially from the scientific method.
Philosopher of science, Bruno Latour suggests that science is a process of amass-
ing inscriptions in order to mobilise power. A great deal of scientific research is
based on inscriptions: science predominantly works through study of graphs, maps,
tables and data rather than actualities (La Tour 1986). These inscriptions and cas-
cades of inscriptions (inscriptions which refer to each other, rather than material
realities) are a process by which the optical consistency required to maintain immu-
tability of ideas across time and irrespective of where they are located or applied,
is achieved. Invention of the printing press and other technologies of reproduction
of inscriptions or “immutable mobiles” has sped up the spread of errors or inac-
curacies so that knowledge becomes less and less tied to real conditions. Scientific
inscriptions work like Foucault’s webs of discourse or regimes of truth; they form a
panopticon determining what counts for truth, what conduct is permitted and what
is not. La Tour observes:
People before science and outside laboratories certainly use their eyes, but not
in the same way. They looked at the spectacle of the world, but not this new
type of image designed to transport the objects of the world, to accumulate
them … (La Tour 1986: 10)
Inscription results in displacement of experience in favour of representation and

discourse.
In her essay, ‘Situated knowledges: the science question in feminism and the privi-
lege of partial perspective’ (1991), Donna Haraway reveals the inadequacy of such
methods for grounding knowledge in lived experience. She calls for a “successor sci-
ence” that takes account of the structure of facts and artefacts (Haraway 1991: 185).
Just as I would recommend reading Foucault’s essay ‘What is an author’ as an aid to
developing more critical and distanced accounts in practitioner research, I suggest
that Haraway’s essay provides a rationale and guide for re-inserting the self and lived
experience into accounts of the research process. She asserts that in order to test
embodied or real relations to events and objects in the world against those accounts
given in established discourse and to unmask doctrines of objectivity that threaten
our sense of historical subjectivity and our embodied accounts of truth, we need to
look at the issue of the relations of bodies to language (Haraway 1991: 196).
The problem confronting the practitioner researcher is how to have simultane-
ously, an account of radical historical contingency for all knowledge claims of know-
ing subjects, and a critical practice for recognising our own semiotic technologies
for making meanings (Haraway 1991: 187). Like La Tour, Haraway is critical of the
social constructionist underpinnings of dominant accounts of knowledge and ex-
poses science’s false claim to objectivity. She observes that the scientific search for
universal laws and claims of objectivity are reductionist and constitute a negation
of particularities of embodied vision. Moreover, social constructionist accounts of
irreducible difference lead to relativism and a state in which only power can deter-
mine what counts as truth. Together, these accounts of knowledge constitute a ‘god
trick’ that endorses the conquering gaze from nowhere claiming the power to see
and not be seen – and the view from everywhere, which is effectively the same thing
(Haraway 1991: 188). Haraway suggests that an alternative to relativism and reduc-
tionism emerges from an acknowledgement of, ‘partial, locatable, critical knowledges
sustaining the possibility webs of connections called solidarity in politics and shared
conversations in epistemology (Haraway 1991: 191).
A recognition that objectivity can only be partial, calls for re-admitting embodied
vision and positioning in research. Embodied vision involves seeing something from
somewhere. It links experience, practice and theory to produce situated knowledge,
knowledge that operates in relation to established knowledge and thus has the capac-
ity to extend or alter what is known.
Haraway questions the binary often set up between theory and practice. She de-
clares, ‘Theory is bodily, and theory is literal’ (Haraway 1992: 299). Her explanation
of what she terms a “reflexive artefactualism” that produces effects of connection,
of embodiment and of responsibility (Haraway 1992: 295) can be understood as
material thinking – practices involving bodies. Haraway observes further:
Always radically and historically specific, always lively, bodies have a different
kind of specificity and effectivity; and so they invite a different kind of engage-
ment and intervention. (Haraway 1992: 298)
Let us return, finally, to Picasso’s Demioselles and to Steinberg’s and Lisa Florman’s
(2003) commentaries on the painting. Towards the end of his essay, after garnering
an impressive body of criticism and engaging in a close formal analysis of the work,
Steinberg comments:
Let the truth be known…. The other day, I learned from a well-informed
New Yorker (excuse the redundancy) that the secret is out: Picasso in 1907
had contracted VD, and painted the Demoiselles to vent his rage against women.
(Steinberg 1988: 71)
Notwithstanding all the other possible interpretations, and any intentions the painter
may have had, it seems that this work, often hailed the birth of Cubism emerged
not only from antecedent practices and ideas, but also from the particularities and
passions of lived experience, from situated knowledge, that could not be expressed
in any other way than by the forging of a new visual language; that is, by an exten-
sion of the possibilities of discourse made possible through practice. Yet, Florman,
(drawing on Christopher Green’s analysis of Demoiselles) emphasises that before
Steinberg’s essay, these possibilities remained largely inchoate:
Before [his] essay, the Demioselles d’Avignon was the birthplace of cubism, the
marker of the epochal shift from content to form in modern painting. After
Steinberg’s essay, it has become the marker of an epochal shift to a new kind
of engagement with sexuality, one whose immediacy was unprecedented in the

history of painting. (Florman 2003 quotes Green: 789)
Florman’s engagement with Rubin’s and Steinberg’s account of Picasso’ painting is

illuminating as much for its thesis, which suggests that Demoiselles is a study in both
detachment and immediacy that emerges through self-discovery predicated on ex-
periencing the work (the work that the painting does), but also for it’s relevance to the
issue of objective and subjective positioning of the artist as researcher through the
research writing. Florman notes: ‘it is experiencing that allows us to think with the
other’ (Florman 2003: 777). Experiencing the painting, she continues, becomes an
activity in which we may be overcome by the extreme otherness of the sublime, or
chose a more conceptual modality of engagement in order to maintain some degree
of detachment. Florman suggests further, that it is the instantiation of these two
positions through the alternating style (one more poetic and one more prosaic) of
Steinberg’s account that allows us to experience the painting more fully. This seems
to reflect precisely the situation faced by the artist/researcher who is required to
discuss his or her own work as artistic research.
(A version of this paper was presented at the Research into Practice Conference at Hertfordshire Uni-
versity in July 2006.)
11
RUPTURE AND RECOGNITION:

IDENTIFYING THE PERFORMATIVE
RESEARCH PARADIGM
Brad Haseman
There has been considerable debate around how best to articulate a research meth-
odology that is most congenial to artists, designers and other creative practitioners.
A number of possible terms have been proposed to describe this model of enquiry:
“practice as research”, “practice-based research”, “practice-integrated research”,
“studio research” and so on. However, in recent years, “practice-led research” has
become a prominent term for effectively describing the research approach that ena-
bles practitioners to initiate and then pursue their research through practice.
Carole Gray has been a principal architect in this, defining practice-led research as:
Firstly, research which is initiated in practice, where questions, problems, chal-

lenges are identified and formed by the needs of practice and practitioners;
and secondly, that the research strategy is carried out through practice, using
predominantly methodologies and specific methods familiar to us as practi-
tioners. (Gray 1996: 3)
Of all the emerging nomenclatures, I believe Gray’s “practice-led research” is an ef-

fective and serviceable term. It describes what practitioner-researchers do, captures
the nuances and subtleties of their research process and accurately represents that
process to research funding bodies. Above all, it asserts the primacy of practice and
insists that because creative practice is both ongoing and persistent; practitioner re-
searchers do not merely “think” their way through or out of a problem, but rather
they “practise” to a resolution.
Much has been written about practice-led research and its finer textures do not
need to be restated here2. However within the broader research environment, the
question of methodological rigour continues to trouble practice-led research. How
will it be possible for the person who is both a researcher and creative practitioner to
take his or her place at the research table in a way which ensures that the primacy of
practice and the embedded epistemologies of practice are respected and valued, and
at the same time produce research which is recognised and respected for its rigour by
the other researchers within and beyond the field of the creative arts?
Currently there is a strong alignment between practice-led research and some re-
search strategies and methods from the qualitative tradition. For example, reflective
practice, action research, grounded theory and participant-observation all inform
practitioner-research generally. However, the important point to make is that practice-
led research can not merely be subsumed under the qualitative research framework.
Practice-led research employs its own distinctive research approach with its own strat-
egies and methods, drawn from the long-standing and accepted working methods and
practices of artists and practitioners across the arts and emerging creative disciplines.
These distinctive qualities point us towards an entirely new research paradigm, which
elsewhere, I have argued can be best understood as performative research3.
This chapter takes up the challenge to articulate the performative research par-
adigm. It sets out to show how significant developments in practice-led research,
including inventive methods of collecting and analysing data, alternative forms of
reporting research and feedback loops operate to distinguish the performative meth-
odology from qualitative research methodologies. Drawing on a case study, David
Fenton’s Unstable Acts, I exemplify the “inventive” work-in-progress that characterises
this new methodology.
Recognising Alternative Forms of Reporting Research

Central to the argument for an alternative methodology for the Creative Arts is an
insistence by practice-led researchers, that research outputs and claims to knowl-
edge be reported through symbolic language and forms specific to their practice. Such
a move challenges traditional ways of representing research findings. Practice-led
researchers believe it is folly to seek to only “translate” the findings and under-
standings of practice into the numbers (quantitative) and words (qualitative) modes
preferred by traditional research paradigms. They argue that a continued insistence
that practice-led research be reported primarily in the traditional forms of research
(words or numbers) can only result in the dilution and ultimately the impoverish-
ment of the epistemological content embedded and embodied in practice. Thus the
researcher-composer asserts the primacy of the music; for the poet it is the sonnet,
for the choreographer it is the dance, for the designer it is the material forms and for
the 3-D interaction designer it is the computer code and the experience of playing
the game which stands as the research outcome.
These “symbolic orders of knowing” conform with established definitions of re-
search. The OECD definition, which is quoted in all of the documentation from the
Australian Department of Education, Science and Training, states:
Research and experimental development (R&D) comprise creative work un-

dertaken on a systematic basis in order to increase the stock of knowledge,
including knowledge of man, culture and society, and the use of this stock of
knowledge to devise new applications. (OECD 2002: 30)
In the UK the definition of research is even more tightly aligned with the alternative
research outputs from practice-led researchers, where “research” for the purpose of
the 2008 Research Assessment Exercise is to be understood as:
IDENTIFYING THE PERFORMATIVE RESEARCH PARADIGM 149
Original investigation undertaken in order to gain knowledge and understand-

ing. It includes ... the invention and generation of ideas, images, performances,
artefacts including design, where these lead to new or substantially improved
insights and the use of existing knowledge in experimental development to
produce new or substantially improved materials, devices, products and proc-
esses, including design and construction. (RAE 2006)
Given the acceptance of alternative research outputs within the research framework,
it is perhaps surprising that the research field is so slow to recognise alternatives to
qualitative and quantitative research methodologies.
Rupture: Beyond Qualitative Research

One way to understand the developments wrought by practitioner-researchers from
the arts and design is to see them as part of the ongoing project to clarify the materi-
als and methods of qualitative research. After all, a number of qualitative researchers
are making similar arguments. Judy Norris acknowledges that ‘many were drawn to
qualitative research as we came to realise how much life was squeezed out of human
experience when we attempted to make sense of it in a numeric, non-contextual way’
(Norris 1997: 89). However, constrained by the capacity of words to capture the nu-
ances and subtleties of human behaviour, there has been a call by some scholars and
researchers for ‘texts that move beyond the purely representational and towards the
presentational’ (Denzin 2003: xi). This has resulted in proposals for qualitative re-
searchers to use symbolic forms such as poetry, fiction writing, theatre, performance,
dance, music and the visual and graphic arts to represent their claims to knowledge
(Norris 1997: 87-115). For instance, in their speculations about the future of qualita-
tive research Mary M. Gergen and Kenneth J. Gergen write:
Investigators are invited into considering the entire range of communicative

expression in the arts and entertainment world—graphic arts, video, drama,
dance, magic, multimedia, and so on—as forms of research and presentation.
Again, in moving towards performance the investigator avoids the mystify-
ing claims of truth and simultaneously expands the range of communities in
which the work can stimulate dialogue. (Gergen and Gergen 2003: 582-583)
Yvonna Lincoln and Norman Denzin too, applaud this development and relish the
instability created by these “messy” forms of research arguing they have ‘reshaped
entirely the debates around “appropriate” scientific discourse, the technical and rhe-
torical conventions of scientific writing, and the meaning of research itself ’ (Lincoln
and Denzin 2003: 7).
Not all qualitative researchers are relaxed about this radical turn in their discipline
(see Snow and Morril, 1995), but there is plenty of evidence to support Lincoln and
Denzin’s assertions. They are correct in assessing the impact of this move; understand-
ings and assumptions about research are being reshaped and radically. But to contain
these impulses to a radical fringe of qualitative researchers seriously understates the
significance of these innovations introduced by artists, designers and others who have
been researching in and through their practice. Their methodological developments
have implications for the whole field of research, for they represent fundamentally
different research procedures to those that operate in both the quantitative and quali-
tative orthodoxies. In fact there is evidence enough to recognise that we stand at a
pivotal moment in the history and development of research. Practice-led researchers
are formulating a third species of research, one that stands in alignment with, but
separate to, the established quantitative and qualitative research traditions. I believe
this shift is as significant as the development of qualitative research at a time when
qualitative researchers noted that the physics of their research was different from the
physics of their quantitative colleagues. At that moment qualitative researchers cre-
ated a rupture with the quantitative orthodoxy. They claimed a new space, marked it
“qualitative research” and began refining its protocols and procedures.
One defining feature of that split centred around the way the two camps repre-
sented their knowledge claims. As Thomas Schwandt makes perfectly clear: quan-
titative research is ‘the activity or operation of expressing something as a quantity
or amount—for example, in numbers, graphs, or formulas’ (Schwandt 2001: 215).
On the other hand, qualitative research, with its concern to capture the observed,
interpreted and nuanced properties of behaviours, responses and things refers to ‘all
forms of social inquiry that rely primarily on … nonnumeric data in the form of
words’ (Schwandt 2001: 213).
I would argue that it is time for practitioner researchers to make a similar move
to the one made by qualitative researchers in the last century. Just as the qualitative
researchers asserted different forms of representation of knowledge claims so prac-
tice-led researchers need to do the same now. We need to mark out a third paradigm,
one that pivots on the methodological innovations detailed above, especially around
the alternative forms we use to report our research findings.
Recognition: The Performative Research Paradigm

But what should we call such a research paradigm—one which asserts that the dance,
the novel, the design and so on is an outcome of research? One possible way forward
is provided by J.L. Austin’s (1962) notion of performativity. For Austin, performative
speech acts are utterances that accomplish, by their very enunciation, an action that
generates effects. His influential and founding example of the performative: (‘I take
this woman to be my lawful wedded wife’) enacts what it names (Austin 1962: 121).
The name performs itself and in the course of that performing becomes the thing
done.4 In the double articulation involved in creative arts research, practice brings
into being what, for want of a better word, it names. The research process inaugu-
rates movement and transformation. It is performative.
In this third category of research—alongside quantitative (symbolic numbers) and
qualitative (symbolic words)—the symbolic data, the expressive forms of research
work performatively. It not only expresses the research, but in that expression be-
comes the research itself. When research findings are presented as such utterances,
they too, perform an action and are appropriately named “performative research”.
It is not qualitative research: it is itself—a new paradigm of research with its own
distinctive protocols, principles and validation procedures.
Schematically the three research paradigms can be represented thus:
Quantitative Research Qualitative Research Performative Research

‘The activity or operation ‘All forms of social inquiry Expressed in non-numeric
of expressing something that rely primarily on data, but in forms of
as a quantity or amount qualitative data … i.e., symbolic data other than
– for example, in numbers, nonnumeric data in the words in discursive text.
graphs, or formulas’ form of words (Schwandt These include material
(Schwandt 2001: 215). 2001: 213). forms of practice, of still
and moving images, of
music and sound, of live
action and digital code.
The scientific method Multi-method Multi-method led by
practice
The Multi-Methods of Performative Research

The table above not only draws a distinction between the three paradigms based
on the way research outcomes are expressed, but also differentiates the methods
of data collection and analysis which are appropriate to each paradigm. Much has
been written about the “scientific” methods of qualitative research which are able
to meet the rigorous requirements of validity, reliability and truth hunting. Over the
past fifty years qualitative researchers have identified and catalogued a wide range of
mixed methods designed to gather the evidence they need to crystalise the knowl-
edge claims which can be made through their heuristic and interpretative practices.
Practice-led researchers operating within the performative paradigm have found
they too, need to engage a range of mixed methods, especially those which are in-
stigated by and led from the demands of their practice. They take their lead in this
from the second part of Gray’s formulation, namely that in practice-led research ‘the
research strategy is carried out through practice, using predominantly methodologies
and specific methods familiar to us as practitioners’ (Gray 1996: 3). This is a radical
and bold innovation, for it not only affirms the primacy of practice in the research
process, but it proclaims that the techniques and tools used by the practitioner can
stand as research methods in their own right. This places considerable power with
the practice-led researcher. Certainly, it means there is a need to identify and validate
existing methods of practice (and perhaps even discipline them somewhat), but it
is these methods, specific to practitioners, that become the spine of the research
process. Acknowledging and validating them means that practice-led researchers
don’t always have to turn to the arsenal of methods from other traditions in order
to justify their research.
Unstable Acts: Case Study - Exemplifying Multi-methods Led by Practice

To illustrate the performative nature of practice-led research, I will detail PhD can-
didate, David Fenton’s study of the relationship between the live performer and the
mediated screen images in contemporary interdisciplinary theatre. From this case
study, I will discuss the four methods which emerged out of the needs of Fenton’s
research and then relate them to the methodological innovation demanded by the
performative research paradigm.
As a successful theatre director and practice-led researcher Fenton designed a
study which incorporated three creative development periods across 2004, 2005 and
2006. The purpose of his study was to examine the form and processes of con-
temporary theatre- making, focussing particularly on the interrelationships resulting
from the interplay of the live performer and mediated screen images. This raised
many subsidiary questions around ideas of the original and copy. His practice-led in-
vestigations challenged traditional understandings of mimesis and the positioning of
the audience in performance. The study resulted in a new theatre work Unstable Acts,
staged at the Creative Industries Precinct at the Queensland University of Technol-
ogy in August 2006. In these cycles of practice-led exploration and rehearsal, four
methods for gathering data were used by Fenton; the enquiry cycle from action
research, reflective practice, a post-performance reception study and action tracking
and fixing. These are briefly described below.
1. Enquiry Cycle from Action Research

As Fenton worked across multiple creative development periods, he devised and
revised his work in a succession of workshops and rehearsals. Such recursive and
iterative creative development is akin to the enquiry cycle of self-reflection, which is
fundamental to action research. The enquiry cycle involves:
Planning a change
Acting and observing the process and consequences of change
Reflecting on these processes and consequences, and then
Replanning
Acting and observing
Reflecting, and so on ... (Kemmis and McTaggart 2003: 381)
Fenton is not alone in using the enquiry cycle to structure and inform the creative
research process. In fact, practice-led researchers see this enquiry cycle as the most
serviceable feature of action research and have few qualms adopting and adapting
it to serve their purposes. They are content to scavenge methods as their practice
demands and are little troubled that they are not using the entire apparatus of action
research and its other defining features (Kemmis and McTaggart 2003: 384-388).
2. Reflective Practice
Fenton acknowledged a debt to Donald Schön for his work in reflective practice,
convinced that Schön’s arguments for “knowing-in-practice” are compelling and of
central importance to the practice-led research. Experienced practitioners, including

Fenton as a Theatre Director, can be confounded by what Schön calls “overlearning”
resulting in practice, which becomes narrow and rigid. The antidote is to use reflec-
tion-in-action and reflection-on-action processes through which the practitioner can:
Surface and criticize the tacit understandings that have grown up around the
repetitive experiences of a specialised practice, and can make new sense of the
situations of uncertainty or uniqueness which he may allow himself to experi-
ence (Schön 1983: 61).
Reflective practice is further enriched when it is coupled with the notion of “dou-
ble-loop learning” proposed by Schön and Argyris. They argue that while it is the
effectiveness of single-loop learning that enables us to avoid continuing investment
in the highly predicable activities that make up the bulk of our lives, it is double-loop
learning that can change the values that govern behaviour, that change ‘the governing
variables (the “settings”) of one’s programs’ (Schön and Argyris 1974: 19). Reflective
Practice, with its accompanying “loops” of feedback and critique, offers practice-
led researchers in Theatre and the other creative arts a coherent framework within
which they can develop the methods and tools for deepening and documenting their
emerging understandings of practice. Fenton used improvisation, spontaneous jour-
naling and digital video feedback as methods of capturing reflection-in-action, while
reflection-on-action was undertaken using pre and post-journaling, digital video edit-
ing and citation journaling. It is common for practice-led researchers to adopt and
adapt methods from other fields too, if they are appropriate. For example Fenton
found the Model of Structured Reflection (MSR), originally developed for nursing by
Christopher Johns (2000), to be an effective way of systematically and methodically
deepening reflection on his directorial practice. The Model of Structured Reflection
is particularly useful, for it adopts the twin perspectives of “looking in” and “looking
out” and most importantly for artists, offers a series of prompts for reflecting on the
aesthetics and ethics of practice.
3. Post-Performance Reception Study

During the final season of the work, which embodied his research findings, Fenton
decided it was important to gain a measure of how audiences “read” his work, Un-
stable Acts. He adopted a post-performance reception study to assess this. The post-
performance reception study involves two related surveying instruments to gather
audience feedback. Firstly it uses a pre-coded questionnaire to survey audiences and
secondly, it employs focus groups. As is typically the case, these questionnaires and
focus groups gather relevant data, which is analysed using a semantic differential
scale. From this analysis, Fenton is able to capture the meanings audiences made in
response to Unstable Acts, as well as assess how one of his key discoveries, the con-
cept of “digital mimesis” is read in action.
4. Action-tracking and Fixing

This method of data gathering was specific to the needs of Fenton’s research project.
One important task for the practice-led researcher/director is to find a way of track-
ing and recording dramatic action as it evolves in rehearsal. In traditional directorial
practice, which realises an extant script, the play text becomes the master document
and serves as the pivot for the action. As action is devised and rehearsed, decisions
are noted in a “prompt copy”, which becomes the record of tracked changes and
final fixed action. In this way the prompt copy becomes a key method of data gather-
ing, a tool for action-tracking and fixing. However, Fenton found that when devising
an interdisciplinary work without a script, the established method for action-tracking
and fixing, the prompt copy, broke down. Instead a new method of documentation
for tracking and fixing the action was required. Fenton’s response was to develop
a matrix to track each of the symbolic codes of the performance. Five codes were
woven through the matrix and patterned into the final and performances: screen
product, music, gesture, artefact and light. The matrix method of action-tracking
and fixing, which replaced the prompt copy in Fenton’s study, exemplifies how a
research method can be created directly from the specific methods familiar to and
regularly used by the director-researcher.
In summary, it may be seen that although it provides a very useful way of “map-
ping” the research, there are also some pitfalls in elaborating upon the multi-
methods of practice-led research in this way. For example, focussing on and em-
phasising only four pieces of any research machinery may divert attention away
to what is most important, namely the ways in which the research accounts for
the relationship between theory and practice and seeks to understand and improve
both. It is clear too that practice-led research is a complex and evolving research
strategy and there is no one “cookie-cutter” template (characterised by the four
methods discussed) that can be applied across disciplines and projects. However,
these four methods do illustrate the methodological traditions from which the
emerging strategy of practice-led research can draw. Both of the first two methods
listed, the enquiry cycle and reflective practice arise directly from the arsenal of
approaches developed by qualitative researchers. The enquiry cycle is recognised
as being the dominant feature of action research, and it is clear there is a strong
overlap between it and practices which deepen reflection. Stephen Kemmis and
Robin McTaggart who have been writing for over twenty-five years on action re-
search, note that ‘Participatory action research (not always by that name) frequently
emerges in situations where people want to make change thoughtfully—that is
after critical reflection’ (Kemmis and McTaggart 2003: 346). Of course (and of-
ten to the chagrin of traditional action researchers), practice-led researchers rarely
follow these methods slavishly, preferring to adapt existing methods to suit their
purposes.
The third method, a post-performance reception study, uses questionnaires and
focus groups to gather descriptive and inferential statistics to measure audience
response. Clearly this method belongs to the quasi-experimental methods of quan-
titative research, demonstrating once again that practice-led researchers will use
methods from across the research paradigms to inform or test the assumptions or
outcomes of practice.
Something different happens when we attempt to trace the genealogy of the
fourth method, action-tracking and fixing. This tool did not exist as “a research
method” until Fenton, as a theatre director/researcher, formalised it from his prac-
tice-led approach. The creation of this original method is clear evidence of Gray’s
belief that practice-led research not only draws on specific methods familiar to us as
practitioners, but in doing so, generates new methods and strategies of investigation.
Now that Fenton has identified and reported on this technique in his own study, it is
likely that others will follow his lead, applying action-tracking and fixing to their own
research in Theatre and perhaps in other performing arts such as Dance.
How then can we best describe the relationship of these four research methods
to the distinctive research approach practice-led researchers are establishing? Clearly
there is a mix—the qualitative heritage is evident and recognised together with the
quantitative approach adopted in the post-performance reception study. Could prac-
tice-led research be best understood as a “mixed methods” research design, the pur-
pose of which, it has been suggested, is to:
Build on the synergy and strength that exist between quantitative and qualita-
tive research methods in order to understand a phenomena more fully than is
possible using either quantitative or qualitative methods alone. (Gay, Mills and
Airasian 2000: 490)
Perhaps, but such a move does not adequately account for those idiosyncratic re-
search methods, such as action-tracking and fixing, which practitioner researchers
extract directly from their usual working practices. Just as Fenton has made a meth-
odological contribution by charting the innovative method of action-tracking and
fixing, practice-led researchers from all disciplines have similar opportunities for
methodological innovations from their particular disciplinary approaches. In fact
these innovations are likely to be among the major contributions to knowledge of
practice-led research and the performative paradigm. The strength of practice-led
research is its capacity to forge new, hybrid or mutant research methods that are
specific to the object of enquiry.
The Promise and Practice of Performative Research

It is important to acknowledge that proposals for a third research paradigm are hard-
ly new. In 1988, Peter Reason was making such an argument around co-operative
enquiry, an approach which is “with and for people rather than on people” (Reason
1995: 1). This involves:
Establishing an aware and self-critical movement between experience and re-

flection which goes though several cycles as ideas, practice and experience are
systematically honed and refined. (Reason 1995: 6)
The impulses which resulted in Peter Reason’s formulations are also to be found
in the performative research paradigm. It too, values the conditions of participa-
tory and holistic knowing, critical subjectivity and knowledge in action that Reason
(1995: 9-14) offers as indicators of the rupture with traditional research paradigms.
However, these discontinuities with previous world views and methods are extended
in the Performative Research paradigm to the very way in which research is reported
and knowledge claims proposed and examined.
By claiming a “third space”, performative researchers can stand aside from the
assumptions of qualitative research and gain the clear air they need to clarify the
conceptual architecture and protocols of performative research in its own terms. It
is likely that we will be surprised by what we come to understand. The process of es-
tablishing a research question and problem formation, the approach for undertaking
a “literature review”, the criteria for gathering and presenting documentation and the
ways media-rich outputs are catalogued and distributed are all likely to take us into
new and exciting spaces with solutions which stand apart from the qualitative tradi-
tion, but at the same time meet the credibility tests for all good research. Practice-led
researchers need to articulate the ways in which their research meets the conditions
of transparency, (its clarity of structure, process and outcomes) and transferability
- namely, its usefulness beyond the specific research project and how its principles
enrich and inform other researchers and fresh contexts.
As this progresses, it will become sharply evident that while practice-led research
builds directly out of a researcher’s professional practice, it is more than an indi-
vidual’s professional practice alone. With its emergent, but nevertheless systematic
approach, practice-led research promises to raise the level of critical practice and
theorising around practice in a more rigorous and open way than professional prac-
tice alone is able to achieve. And as evidence of this, while the outputs of performa-
tive research will certainly include the material forms of practice: images, music and
sound, live action digital code and so on, there will be an additional commentary
commonly referred to as an exegesis.
From the Greek exegeisthai, exegesis can be understood as an explanation or inter-
pretation of the creative or artistic work. This use of the term can be problematic,
implying that the researcher has to say things twice, once in the work itself and
then again as an explanation or interpretation of that work. However if we take an
alternative understanding of exegesis ‘that it is, at root, a leading or guiding out of a
complexity’ (dictionary.com: 2003) then we have a more open and rich field of pos-
sibilities for practice-led researchers to complete their contribution to knowledge.5
It is also common for practice-led researchers to compliment their exegesis with ap-
propriate documentation drawn principally from the methods they use to map and
interpret the progress and findings of their research.
All of these issues require further thorough investigation and scholarly reporting
if the promise and potential of performative research is to be fully recognised and
realised. Nevertheless, the potential is significant and potentially far-reaching, for
it is likely that performative research, with practice-led research as its principal re-
search strategy, will have applications far beyond the creative arts, design and related
creative disciplines such as fashion and media. For performative research is aligned
with the processes of testing and prototyping so common in user-led and end-user
research. Indeed if it lives up to its potential, we could quickly see performative re-
search adopted as the principal research methodology for fields as diverse as online
education, virtual heritage, creative retail, cultural tourism and business-to-consumer
interaction. This suggests that performative research, along with its practice-led ad-
vocates, will not have to struggle too hard for recognition in the current research
environment that favours commercialisation and impact.
12
THE EXEGESIS AS MEME

Estelle Barrett
I would like to suggest that the notion of the “meme” is a useful one for address-
ing a number of key questions relating to creative arts research generally, and to the
exegesis in particular. These questions are as follows:
• What is it?
• Why do we need it?
• What can it do within the context of a knowledge economy?
• How do we judge its success and value?
What is to follow is prefaced by an acknowledgment that the field of creative arts

is a heterogeneous one, and that not all those who would call themselves artists, may
choose to practice or seek recognition within a research framework. However, those
who do seek endorsement of their practices by pursuing a higher degree and other
forms of practice-based research within the university, are working in a relatively
new discipline of research and will thus inevitably be subject to evaluation according
to criteria that relate to research and the knowledge economy in general.
Definition of Meme
Let us start with a brief definition of “meme” which will be extended as this chap-
ter proceeds. In his description of memes, Richard Dawkins (1981) observes that
survival of such entities is dependent on the capacity for self-replication, fitness or
the likelihood of being replicated and fecundity or speed of replication to produce
critical mass and ensure stability. An evolutionary advancement on their biological
counterparts, memes can be described as cultural replicators. Drawing on Dawkins
earlier work, Richard Brodie (1996) describes memes as the basic building blocks
of culture; ideas that form themselves into distinct memorable units and which are
spread by something as simple as communicating. It should be noted that the cultur-
al artefact—the tune, painting, poem, for example—is not the meme itself, but is a
vehicle by which the meme, an idea or internal representation is externalised. Within

this context, the exegesis may be viewed both as a replication or re-versioning of the
completed artistic work as well as a reflective discourse on significant moments in
the process of unfolding and revealing. As “meme” it operates both as a noun—an
artefact in its own right, and a verb—a re-enactment of the artefact as process. As
such, it has the potential to reflect and map the logic from which a particular model
of representation has emerged. Through this double articulation, the exegesis be-
comes a vehicle for validating the process of studio enquiry and elaborating the
value of its outcomes.
The evolution, stability and successful application of ideas and knowledge derived
from research depend on how well such knowledge is replicated and understood
by others. However, the replication mechanisms that have traditionally valorised
and validated creative arts practices have focussed on product rather than process.
Moreover, such mechanisms have tended to rely on the mystification of artistic
products as commodities rather than an elucidation of creative arts practices as al-
ternative modes of understanding the world and of revealing new knowledge.
An understanding of the meme as a vehicle for fixing ideas in our collective con-
sciousness allows us to recognise how conventional valorisation of the artefact as
product proceeds at the expense of an appreciation of the value of creative proc-
esses as modes of revealing—in other words as modes of enquiry and research.
Replication as Valorisation
An appraisal of conventional means of valorisation bears this out. Paradoxically, the
process that valorises art as commodity is at the same time a process of mystification
rather than illumination. The more a work is reproduced in catalogues, books, maga-
zines, on chocolate boxes and T-shirts, and sold and resold in by dealers, the greater
is the aura of awe and mystique that surrounds it. This is particularly pertinent to the
visual arts as demonstrated in Brian O’ Doherty’s (1986) description of the modern-
ist gallery and its discourses as “white cube”, one which I suggest, continues to have
relevance. O’ Doherty points out that the conventional gallery with its white walls,
sealed windows, polished floors and light emanating from the ceiling can be likened
to a church or tomb:
The ideal gallery subtracts from the artwork all cues that interfere with the fact
that it is “art”. The work is isolated from everything that would detract from it
own evaluation of itself. (O’Doherty 1986: 14)
In this context the work is given a sense of eternal sameness, a hermetically sealed
repository of its maker’s divine inspiration. The viewer of the work also relinquishes
time and lived experience within the frame of sympathetic magic or mystique that is
created. The idea of artist as genius, enhanced through modernist discourse has also
added to the auratic nature of art that continues to dominate general perceptions.
Indeed many artists themselves subscribe to the mystification process through their
reluctance to discuss the origin and situated meanings of completed works. On the
THE EXEGESIS AS MEME 161
other hand, artists are also often critical of institutional discourses on art that are
removed from the experience of making and the individual consciousness of the
maker. Hence Picasso observed that:
A painting … has always a certain significance, at least as much as the man who
did it. As soon as it is bought and hung on the wall takes on quite a different kind
of significance and the painting is done for. (Chipp quotes Picasso 1968: 272)
Picasso’s comment relates to the tendency of institutional discourses to be dislo-

cated from the studio process and its experiential, conceptual and intellectual frame-
work. Michel Carter suggest a further disengagement of discourses from the process
of inquiry results from the implication of such discourses in market forces through
their focus on art works as precious objects. Whilst art historians and critical com-
mentators may present a divergence of views on philosophical value of artistic out-
put, Carter observes: ‘intellectual interest can quickly get transformed into economic
interest. New meanings are equated to new [monetary] values’ (Carter 1990: 115).
Whatever their intellectual benefits, one could argue that conventional forms of
criticism tend to focus on the finished product rather than material, intellectual and
cognitive processes that produced it. The meme itself, or the internal representation
of ideas that produced the artwork is then obscured by the vehicle in which it is car-
ried. I should like to emphasise that this is not a denial of the intrinsic and generative
value of the artworks and their capacity, in some instances to stand alone as an object
of knowledge. However I do believe there is a need for a shift in current perceptions
of the role and status of the creative arts in the knowledge economy and that the
exegesis is a crucial vehicle for effecting this shift.
The exegesis as an illumination and replication of the meme or internal repre-
sentation can adjust the critical focus and thus has the potential to valorise and
validate the mode of inquiry as one worthy of recognition alongside research ap-
proaches belonging to more generously supported disciplines in the university and
broader cultural arena. To put it another way, the exegesis is a means of articulating
a more profound rationale for institutional recognition and support of creative arts
research.
New Frontiers of Research

In proposing this, I draw on Elliot W. Eisner’s view that we need new ways of rep-
resenting ideas and of illuminating the world and domains of knowledge. Eisner
observes that a growing recognition of the limits of traditional ways of represent-
ing the world has given rise to a search for alternative approaches to transform and
represent the contents of consciousness. Researchers are recognising that scientific
inquiry is just one species of research and that ‘research is not merely a species of
social science’ (Eisner 1997: 261). Dissatisfaction with positivism and behaviour-
ism as reductive modes of knowing has also come from within the science disci-
plines themselves. In his work entitled, The Discontinuous Universe (1972), Werner
Heisenberg states that the knowledge of science is applicable only to limited realms
of experience and the scientific method is but a single method for understanding the
world. Moreover, the notion of scientifically-based knowledge as statements of ulti-
mate truth contains an inner contradiction since ‘the employment of this procedure
changes and transforms its object’ (Heisenberg 1972: 189). The work of Heisenberg
and others reveals that knowledge is relational and that different models of inquiry
will yield different forms of knowledge.
Eisner supports the idea that creative arts-based inquiry has a role to play in ex-
tending new frontiers of research. He draws on the work of J. Schwab and others
in proposing the centrality of practical and experiential knowledge (Eisner 1997:
261). Understood through the Greek term phronesis, this form of inquiry requires
deliberation and “wise moral choice” or what I would call the attribution of value
based on unfolding action and experience. In this framework one can say that the
exegesis illuminates particular knowledge and data derived from interacting with the
environment (material and social) and then discusses it in relation to what is already
presented in theory and general domains of knowledge. I would like to return to
the meme analogy to suggest that the potential for innovation lies in this relational
aspect of creative arts practice.
Evolution of Creative Arts Research: What the Exegesis is and what it can Do
Dawkins tells us that evolution occurs through the differential survival of replicating
entities. The implication here, is that evolution occurs through change as an adapta-
tion to the demands of the environment. Brodie comments further:
Evolution requires two things: replication with a certain degree of fidelity, and
innovation, and a certain degree of infidelity. (Brodie 1996: 68)
The element of infidelity is a crucial one since it implies a departure from customary
ways of thinking and doing things. This helps us to understand why and how crea-
tive arts practices change over time. It also highlights an important function of the
exegesis. In addition to answering the crucial question: “What did the studio proc-
ess reveal that could not have been revealed by any other mode of enquiry?”, the
exegesis provides the opportunity for creative arts researcher to elucidate why and
how processes specific to the arts discipline concerned mutate to generate alternative
models of understanding. At the same time, the researcher is also able to elaborate
the significance of these models within a research context. Unlike those valorisation
or replication processes that focus mainly on the economic and aesthetic value of
creative works, the creative arts exegesis as meme, is a differential replication that
emphasises processes of enquiry and their potential for innovative application be-
yond the production of the works themselves.
The importance of this task for creative arts researchers is reflected in observa-
tions made by Lauchlan Chipman in his paper, ‘What governments can’t know: the
knowledge economy and the market’ (Chipman 2002). Chipman points out that the
information age to which we belong is one in which knowledge is rapidly replacing
primary and industrial production as the basis for global economy. ‘Knowledge is
THE EXEGESIS AS MEME 163
becoming the basic building block underlying wealth’ (Thurow quoted in Chipman
2002: 10). Chipman suggests that in a knowledge economy, it is necessary for a large
number of people to comprehend the creative output of others in order for such
outputs to be sufficiently taken up for the enhancement of society. Within the con-
text of research, “output” refers not only to the products of creative arts practices
which may be judged by conventional criteria of artistic merit, but also to the experi-
mental and material processes through which such products are externalised.
Elsewhere, I have suggested some possible reasons for the slow recognition and
acceptance of the value and validity of creative arts research (Barrett 2002). One of
these relates to the dominance of instrumental and rationalistic modes of thinking
within contemporary society. Social philosopher Pierre Bourdieu (1990) contends
that social and institutional systems that make up society or the habitus, operate
according to two forms of logic: rational logic and an alternative logic, which may
be understood as the logic of practice. Bourdieu explains that rationality achieves
privileged status by a process of appropriating and subsuming, into its own logic,
knowledge and cultural capital generated through practices that employ the alterna-
tive logic of practice. (Bourdieu 1990: 56). The exegesis can counteract this cultural
“forgetting” by tracing and highlighting the logic of specific experiential inquiry. A
second issue is related to the lack of a critical mass of discourses that expound the
merits of creative arts research. For the exegesis to achieve success as replicator or
meme, there will need to be continued efforts to promote and publish the outcomes
of research in as many ways as possible.
To conclude, I propose that an understanding of the creative arts exegesis as
meme is a useful way of illuminating what the exegesis is and what it has the poten-
tial to do. Its fitness for promoting the stability of a creative arts research discipline
and advancing the successful evolution of creative arts research may be judged both
according to criteria of scholarly rigour, as well as its capacity to replicate and eluci-
date the value of studio enquiry processes and their applications within the in the
general field of research.
(This chapter was first published in Text, Special Issue (Website Series) 3 [On-line] http://www.griffith.edu.
au/school/art/text/speciss/issue3/content.htm)
NOTES
Chapter 1
1 Jeremy Bentham: Defence of Usury: Shewing the Impolicy of the Present Legal Restraints on
Pecuniary Bargains in a Series of Letters to a Friend. To Which is Added a Letter to Adam Smith,
Esq.; LL.D. on the Discouragements opposed by the above Restraints to the Progress of Inventive
Industry. See: www.econlib.org/LIBRARY/Bentham/bnthUs3.html accessed October 6
2006.
2 Paul Carter, (2004) Material Thinking: The Theory and Practice of Creative Research, Carlton,
Vic: Melbourne University Publishing: 6-11.
3 See Paul Carter’s Material Thinking: The Theory and Practice of Creative Research, especially
pages 9-10 & 185-191.
4 Jeremy Bentham: Defence of Usury: Shewing the Impolicy of the Present Legal Restraints on
Pecuniary Bargains in a Series of Letters to a Friend. To Which is Added a Letter to Adam Smith,
Esq.; LL.D. on the Discouragements opposed by the above Restraints to the Progress of Inventive
Industry, www.econlib.org/LIBRARY/Bentham/bnthUs3.html accessed October 6 2006.
5 See http://grad.cgu.edu/~combsc/glossary.html accessed October 6 2006.
6 See http://grad.cgu.edu/~combsc/glossary.html accessed October 6 2006.
7 See Paul Carter’s Solution: A Public Spaces Strategy, Victoria Harbour, July 2002: 5. Available
from the author by agreement with Lend Lease Pty Ltd.
8 see John Knowles, ed, The Life and Writings of Henry Fuseli, 3 vols, H. Colburn, London,
1831, vol 1, 136- 137, quoted by Joseph Viscomi in ‘William Blake, Illuminated Books,
and the Concept of Difference’, http://sites.unc.edu/viscomi/concept.htm.
9 A full account of this project is in Paul Carter’s (2005) Mythform: The Making of Nearamnew
at Federation Square, Miegunyah Press.
Chapter 2
1 For a full account see B.Bolt Art Beyond Representation: The Performative Power of the Image,
I.B.Tauris, 2004, Chapter 4.
Chapter 4
1 The video of 27 seconds is a documentation of a stage dance work.
2 Chinese philosophy divides the life span into 12 (conception, babyhood, infancy, child-
hood, adolescence, “Kuan Tai” meaning matriculation, adulthood, maturity, retirement,

decline, final years, burial). Harry R. Moody and David Carroll in their book The Five Stages
of the Soul (1998), identify steps along the spiritual passages that shape our lives as the call, the
search, the struggle, breakthrough, and return.
3 I refer specifically to Western contemporary dance. Eastern cultures have a significant
history of celebrating the mature performing artist; for example Kazuo Ono continues to
perform at the age of 80 plus.
4 A movement phrase using the directives: ‘Grab, search, discard, measure, sob, ricochet, wait.’
5 Laban’s movement theory describes the quality “wring” as sustained (temporally), strong
(weight), and indirect (spatial pathway).
6 I began rehearsals with the dancers in January 1998 and shot the final footage in September
1998. After the location shoot in June, we returned to the studio and developed a live
performance draft (presented in August that year). This included projected footage from
location that informed the final shoot in terms of what ‘pick-up’ material was required,
and a performance memory for the dancers to call on in front of the camera.
7 In 1997 I attended an intensive workshop with American improvisation artist, Lisa Nelson,
which culminated in a performance entitled Before Your Eyes, at Dancehouse, Melbourne.
Lisa, also a video artist and editor of the journal Contact Quarterly, is interested in exploring
the connections between vision and kinaesthetic memory to inform her performance prac-
tice. She often works with eyes closed to recall the ‘sensation of the image’ (Nelson, 1992).
8 The dancer’s performance narrative relates to how each dancer connects and makes sense
of their actions in performance. In a sense, it is a thought and felt storyline that locates
and supports the performer in their performance reality. Drawing on imagery, memory,
sensation, spatial connections, focal points of contact … it is the weaving together of
physical and intellectual stimuli, reconciling the ‘steps’ into a journey, bringing an atten-
tiveness to each moment of performance.
9 Quoting Steve Paxton, discussing contact improvisation during a workshop at the South
Australian College of Advanced Education, Adelaide, 1985.
10 At the age of twelve I performed a dance solo to Henry Mancini’s Pink Panther theme.
11 There were only three set movement sequences for this work: the central “trauma”
phrase; and two phrases (choreographed by Fiona and myself respectively) based on spe-
cific phrases highlighted in the soundscape (“Wait, focus down, make them move, back
and forth, waving, perfectly still, just the bows moving”). These latter phrases became the
starting points or anchors for improvisation on the day of shooting, and functioned in
the same way as the 12 stages’ “Grab, search” phrase in providing connecting dynamic/
kinaesthetic frameworks with personalized variations.
12 The indoor theatre at Kyabram offered a “classic” proscenium arch setting (red curtains,
stage apron) reflecting the live performance location of my story and my history as a
performer, and playing on the ambiguity between stage space and screen space.
13 Paul Huntingford is a sound editor and musician who collaborated with me as camera op-
erator and picture editor on dance video/performances Point of View, Lay Bare, Chiaroscuro
and a short 16mm film Betrayal.
14 Francis Treacey is a Senior Lecturer in the media department at Deakin University and my
co-supervisor for this Masters research. In 2001 we collaborated on the teaching of a new
NOTES 167
dance video unit (Dance Video: Choreography and the camera) designed for the collaborative
arts stream of the Bachelor of Contemporary Arts.
15 The “rewind phrase” was a movement sequence created from actions I wanted to take
back, such as a kick, a punch, an unkind comment. This sequence was then learnt and
performed in reverse so that outward movements came back into the body.
16 “Jog” here refers to the manual control on video playback machines, which allows the
editor to shift forward and back over small sections of tape, usually to isolate the starting
point of a particular frame or sequence.
17 These fragments were drawn from two main phrases I had choreographed: 1) the ‘asser-
tive driving’ phrase was a larger travelling sequence designed for the climax of the work
in which the whole group crosses and interweaves in a more high-risk fashion. The phrase
which moved across from UL (upstage left) to UR, falls and cartwheels into a spin down-
stage, then hops/barrel rolls across to DL, before descending into a rolling phrase on
the floor; 2) ‘Katie’s time shift’ phrase was a variation on images drawn from the ‘rewind’
phrase and images selected from personal stories offered by the dancers.
18 The ‘bin’ is the desktop folder in which the editor stores their separate shots or ‘clips’.
19 An audience member sitting on the extreme left of the auditorium had a choice or shots,
either downstage right to upstage right, or the diagonal from downstage right to upstage
left. (Note that the stage directions refer to the dancer’s point of view, i.e. opposite to
audience). It is for this reason that I chose to shoot the performances from the extreme
right and left of the second row of the auditorium.
20 ‘I picked out certain phrases … and often they were the embellishments around the actual
facts, they were the hesitations or things they repeat, or the quality of their voice. And also
some of the active things like the ideas of falling or the ‘searching beneath the skin to the
bone’ (Reid quoted in Norris 2000).
Chapter 5
1 This research was undertaken in the collections of The British Library, London, the
Bodleian Library, Oxford, the Real Biblioteca del Monasterio de El Escorial, the
Biblioteca Nacional, the Real Academia de la Historia in Madrid and the Österreichischen
Nationalbibliothek.
Chapter 6
1 For a more detailed account of new directions in research regarding masculinity and at-
tempts to define the term see Connell, 2000, chapters 1 and 2.
2 This was an obvious and straightforward choice under the circumstances but in practice
it proved extremely difficult to find three male dancers appropriate to the challenge. To
begin with there are far fewer male than female dancers. The male dancers also needed to
be reasonably mature so as to draw on a depth of experience as well as feeling confident
about exposing aspects of personal experience. Finally, the process was long and slow
requiring commitment and patience. The rewards for the dancers were in the creative
extension the process offered and in the chance to develop a very personal engagement
with movement and performance.
3 The dancers who are improvising in this open-ended fashion are determining the chore-
ography in the moment of its actualisation and thus can be credited with the outcome in
the same way a singular and premeditated choreographic intention might be.
4 Ideokinesis is the process of experiencing or generating movement in response to an idea,
an image or a sensation which is usually based on anatomical information.
5 My standard instruction in response to the length of these improvisations would be to
encourage them to spend longer in the state and to spend time searching for fresh mate-
rial each night.
Chapter 7
1 The extent to which a research degree improves the employment prospects of dance
artists is a complex issue. I am not suggesting here that artists always enter research
programs with the explicit intention of gaining employment in the University sector.
Although some do, these are usually artists already employed in the tertiary sector, and
given the extent to which the tertiary dance sector has contracted over the last five years,
it is unlikely that artists are entering research degrees en masse believing that these de-
grees will result in jobs in the short term. The point I am making is that the attraction
of time to immerse oneself in one’s practice and to confront and work through issues
it raises is often value added by the possibility that research degree may, in the future,
become a pathway to more stable employment in the University sector.
2 In Lacan’s analysis, desire is an ever-present longing to fill a lack that is experienced at the
heart of subjectivity because the very formation of the subject has involved an abdication
of ‘the magical feeling of oneness it had in the imaginary’ (Mansfield 2000: 45).
3 For a full discussion of this issue, see Vincs 2002: 56–73.
Chapter 10
1 Robert Nelson, ‘Doctoralness in The Balance: The Agonies of Scholarly Writing in Studio
Research Degrees’, Text Special Issue, No 3 April 2004.
Chapter 11
1 I wish to acknowledge the important role my QUT colleagues Daniel Mafe and David
Fenton have played in helping to clarify the ideas developed in this chapter.
2 See for example Gray and Malins, 2004, Visualising Research and the special themes issue
‘Practice-led Research’ No 118, of Media Information Australia, (February 2006).
3 See Brad Haseman (2006) ‘A Manifesto for performative research’, Media International Aus-
tralia Incorporating Culture and Policy, Theme Issue “Practice-led Research”, No 118: 96-106.
4 In this discussion it is critical to distinguish performativity from performance. Whilst
performance is a deliberate “act” such as in a theatre production or performance art,
performativity is an iterative and citational practice that brings into being that which it
names. Through such ongoing practices a sedimentation or materialisation occurs.
5 For an introduction to key issues related to the exegesis please see N. Krauth, (2002) ‘The
preface as exegesis’ available at http://www.gu.edu.au/school/art/text/april02/krauth.
htm.
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CONTRIBUTORS
Estelle Barrett
Deakin University
Estelle Barrett is Senior Lecturer in the School of Communication and Creative Arts
at Deakin University where she has teaches Visual Theory. Her research interests
include representation and subjectivity, psychoanalysis, body/mind relations, and
affect and embodiment in aesthetic experience. She has an active interest in visual
communication and creative arts research. She has published reviews and articles in
Real Time, Artlink, Text, Social Semiotics, Double Dialogues and The International Journal of
Critical Arts as well as presenting at national and international conferences.
Barbara Bolt
University of Melbourne
Barbara Bolt is a senior lecturer in Visual Media at the University of Melbourne
in Victoria. She is a practicing artist who has also written extensively on the visual
arts in both popular and academic publications. Her book, Art Beyond Representation:
The Performative Power of the Image was published by the UK publisher I.B.Tauris in
2004. As an arts writer, she has been published in Australian art magazines including
Artlink, Eyeline, Craftswest and Real Time as well as in international refereed journals
such as Cultural Review, Hypatia, Womens Philosophical Review and Social Semiotics. Ad-
ditionally she has had essays on art published in edited books including Differential
Aesthetics: Art Practices and Philosophies: Towards New Feminist Understandings (Ashgate,
2001) and Unframed: The Practices and Politics of Women’s Painting (I.B.Tauris, 2004).
Paul Carter
University of Melbourne
Paul Carter is a writer and artist based at the University of Melbourne, where he
is Professorial Research Fellow within the Faculty of Architecture, Building and
Planning. His recent publications include Repressed Spaces: The Poetics of Agoraphobia
(Reaktion Books, 2002) and Material Thinking: The Theory and Practice of Creative Re-
search (Melbourne University Press, 2004). In 2005 Melbourne University Press with
Miegunyah Press published Mythform: The Making of Nearamnew, a richly-illustrated
account of the plaza artwork at Federation Square, Melbourne, a 7,500 square metre
ground design made in collaboration with Lab architecture studio, featuring over 70
square metres of engraved text. In 2004 Carter was part of a design team including
Taylor, Cullity & Lethlean, Peter Elliot Architects, and James Hayter and Associates
that won the Australian Institute of Landscape Architects National Excellence for
Planning Award for North Terrace Precinct (Adelaide). He is currently collaborating
with Taylor, Cullity & Lethlean on an integrated public artwork concept for parts of
the University of Sydney public domain.
Stephen Goddard
Deakin University
Stephen Goddard teaches film and video in the School of Communication and Cre-
ative Arts at Deakin University. His teaching includes personal, experimental and
documentary production and the relations between screen practitioners and their
practices. As a practicing film and video-maker, his research is based on issues as-
sociated with autobiography and narrative subjectivity. He has presented illustrated
lectures at national and international conferences such as the University Film and
Video Association, the International Auto-Biography Association, and Double Dia-
logues.
Brad Haseman
Queensland University of Technology
Brad Haseman is Professor and Director of Research for the Creative Industries
Faculty at QUT where he has been a strong advocate for practice-led research. He has
worked as a teacher and researcher for over thirty years pursuing his fascination with
the aesthetics and forms of contemporary performance and pedagogy. Most recently
he served as guest editor for a themed issue on Practice-led Research for Media Interna-
tional Australia (February 2006) and co-edited Innovation in Australian Arts, Media and
Design (Post Press, 2004). In 2004 he received a Distinguished Teaching Award for
Postgraduate Supervision at QUT and in 2005 co-convened the national conference
Speculation and Innovation: Applying Practice-led Research in the Creative Industries.
Annette Iggulden
Deakin University
Annette Iggulden has exhibited extensively throughout Australia. For several years
she worked as a sessional tutor and lecturer in arts practice and theory at Swin-
burne and Deakin University (Melbourne and Warrnambool). Her growing interest
in women’s silence and the use of words and images in her own practice led to re-
search for a PhD in Visual Arts at Deakin University. Since her art residency at Hill
End N.S.W. in 2003 she has explored the notion of a “gendered” landscape. She is
also presently working on a project with the Australian National University, Limited
Editions and Book Studio (Canberra), to consider the “silence” surrounding the
violence of women and another collaborative project with the author Gaylene Perry,
on the subject of grief.
CONTRIBUTORS 183
Shaun Mcleod
Deakin University
Shaun McLeod is a Melbourne-based contemporary dancer and choreographer who
has worked with Australian Dance Theatre (Adelaide), Danceworks (Melbourne) and
One Extra (Sydney) as well as presenting numerous independent projects. He has
an interest in both structured choreography and improvised dance, but particularly
in the interface between the two in live performance. His choreographic work has
included In Visible Ink (1995), Cowboy Songs for the 1997 Bodyworks Festival (Dance-
house, Melbourne), Chamber (2001 winner Green Room Award), and Barely Real for
the 2004 Melbourne Fringe Festival. He also maintains an improvised performance
practice with regular performances at Conundrum and he performed in the 2004
Dance Card (Dancehouse, Melbourne). Shaun is also interested in the performance
of masculinity in dance. He completed his MA on masculinity and improvisation in
dance in 2002. He is a lecturer in dance at Deakin University Melbourne.
Gaylene Perry
Deakin University
Gaylene Perry’s literary memoir, Midnight Water (2004), is published by Picador. She
has also published numerous short stories, essays and reviews. Gaylene is currently
working on a second book, which she will probably categorise as fiction. Stylisti-
cally, her writing interests lie in the fissures between fiction and life writing. Gaylene
is a lecturer in professional writing in the School of Communication & Creative
Arts at Deakin University. Her research interests are currently focused on grief and
trauma and the relationships of those concepts to art. She was awarded her PhD in
2001, with her thesis incorporating the novel Water’s Edge and an exegesis treating
the nexus between the creative arts and higher research. Gaylene is concerned with
the spaces created by and in collaborative, interdisciplinary artworks, and has been
working on a collaborative creative writing/visual arts project with the visual artist
Annette Iggulden.
Dianne Reid
Dancehouse Melbourne
Diane Reid is a performer, choreographer/videographer who works as an independ-
ent dance artist and educator in Melbourne Australia. Dianne was a member of the
Melbourne contemporary dance company, Danceworks from 1990-95, was a found-
ing member of Outlet Dance in Adelaide (1987-89). Under the company name hip
sync, Dianne produces dance screen works and video documents/edits live perform-
ance. Her dance video works have been screened at Green Mill Dance Project (1995),
Dance Lumiere (1998), Melbourne Fringe Short Film Festival (1999), IMZ Dance
Screen 2002 (Monaco), Videodance 2002 (Greece), and Hong Kong Fringe Club (Jan.
2004). In 2003 she created a pilot version of the solo work, Scenes from Another Life for
the Dancehouse Bodyworks Festival. She lectured in contemporary dance and dance
video at the School of Communication & Creative Arts, Deakin University until 2004
when she was appointed Artistic Director of Dance House in Melbourne.
Robyn Stewart
The University of Southern Queensland
Robyn Stewart is Associate Professor in the Department of Visual Arts and Direc-
tor of Research for the Faculty of Arts at the University of Southern Queensland,
Australia. She is responsible for the co-ordination of the Visual Arts Honours and
Masters courses and teaches in the field of aesthetics, art theory and visual research
methods. Robyn’s research explores issues of practitioner-based research praxis as
well as the construct of neo-narratives. Her publications include two book chapters,
and a number of papers in refereed journals in Australia and UK. She has presented
more than fifty papers at national and international conferences and in 1999 was
Chair of the organising committee for the highly successful 1999 30th InSEA World
Congress in Brisbane. During the Congress she was awarded the prestigious Sir Her-
bert Reid Medallion for services to Australian art education.
Kim Vincs
Deakin University
Kim Vincs is Senior Lecturer in the School of Communication and Creative Arts at
Deakin University in Melbourne Australia. She co-ordinates the Dance program at
Burwood campus of Deakin and lectures in contemporary dance technique, ballet
for contemporary movers, choreography, dance history and aesthetics. Kim’s dance
practice is as a choreographer-performer and she has presented several seasons of
her work in Melbourne and the San Francisco Bay Area.
APPENDIX
Developing and Writing Creative Arts Practice Research: A Guide
Estelle Barrett
The following pages contain notes to assist practitioner researchers in designing and
writing of practice as research.
Contents page
1. Staging the Research 186
2. The Literature and Practice Review 188
3. Materials Methods and Conceptual Frameworks 191
4. The Exegesis: Discussion of the Studio Research Process 195
5. Discussion of Outcomes and Significance 197
6. Writing The Conclusion 200
7. The Abstract 201
8. Writing the Creative Arts Research Paper: A Summary 202
9. The Conclusion 205
10. Citation and Referencing 205
11. Appendix 205

1. Creative Arts Practice as Research: Staging the Research

One of he crucial questions to be addressed in studio research is: ‘What did the studio
process reveal that could not have been revealed by any other mode of enquiry?’
A re-versioning of the studio process and its significant moments through the ex-
egesis or research paper is a means of locating the work within the field of practice
and theory. It is also part of the replication process that establishes the creative arts
as a stable research discipline able to withstand peer and wider assessment and hence
be validated alongside research in other fields.
In order to present a proposal, and later, to write the introduction (which becomes
a refinement and extension of the proposal), practitioners need to view practice as
research and to design the studio enquiry as a research project before commencing.
This can be daunting, since the outcomes of creative practice cannot be pre-deter-
mined. It is useful to view the enquiry as praxis: a movement between what is known
and what will be revealed.
The staging part of the whole research project can be viewed as a provisional plan
of what will become the introduction to the research paper. The latter is best writ-
ten once the studio enquiry is well under way. The introduction typically answers the
following questions:
• What is the subject or topic to be investigated?
• What are the specific areas of interest and what ideas and positions have other
studio practitioners taken in relation to these?
• How does the project relate to previous practice and theory in the field?
• What is the research question or hypothesis?
• What is the research objective or aim—what will be achieved at the end of the
process?
• What is the thesis or main argument?
• How will this be developed in the research paper?

APPENDIX 187
STAGES OF THE RESEARCH
Stage 1 ESTABLISHING THE FIELD: Introducing the topic and

• ASSERTING background showing how the
CENTRALITY AND NEED project is significant and/or
FOR THE ENQUIRY relevant by summarising what
• STATING CURRENT is known and formulating the
PRACTICE AND problem.
KNOWLEDGE
Stage 2 SUMMARISING PREVIOUS Summarising from the perspective

PRACTICE AND THEORY of this research and showing the
relationship between this research
and the whole field.
Stage 3 JUSTIFICATION: Justifying the need for this

• INDICATING A GAP IN research by showing there hasn’t
KNOWLEDGE been enough research in this
• RAISING A QUESTION field yet, or there have been
inadequacies or omissions in
previous theory and practice.
Stage 4 INTRODUCING PRESENT Clarifying the research project

RESEARCH: itself, by stating its purpose and
• STATING PURPOSE giving an outline of the studio
• STATING HYPOTHESIS/ process and chapters of the
THESIS exegesis/research paper.
• OUTLINING APPROACH
METHODS OF
STUDIO ENQUIRY
AND ANALYTICAL
OR CONCEPTUAL
FRAMEWORKS
• OUTLINE OF CHAPTERS
OF THE EXEGESIS OR
RESEARCH PAPER
Notice that the movement from stage 1 to stage 4 can be depicted as a movement
from general to specific, beginning with introduction to the whole field and then
stating the specific aims and outline of the research. This development can also be
described as an argument designed to convince the reader of the importance of the
research. The usual place where this type of justification is made is at Stage 3, where
the researcher indicates how the studio enquiry is necessary either to fill a gap in ac-
cepted knowledge in the field, to solve previous problems or correct errors.
2. Creative Arts Practice as Research: The Literature and Practice Review

In creative arts research, the literature review extends beyond the reading of texts to
the engagement with the work of other practitioners. It is a means of locating the
research project in the field by providing the contexts of theory and practice.
Three Components of the Literature and Practice Review

The Literature review will assist in developing a hierarchy of themes which may al-
low the researcher to:
• broaden the topic;
• narrow the topic, determine scope of the research;
• assist with movement from the general to the specific;
• allows researcher adjust the critical focus in early stages of the research.
Depending on the creative arts discipline in which the project is located, the litera-
ture review will include:
• scholarly texts—books catalogue essays, articles, reviews and other written ma-
terial including online and CD ROM;
• visual material—paintings, performances, films, exhibitions, videos, virtual gal-

leries, any body of practical work including fiction, visual diaries and other visual
documentation;
• referencing and citation.
Primary and Secondary Sources

The balance between primary and secondary sources used will relate to the research
methodology. The degree to which primary sources (other than the works produced
for the project) will be included is determined according to their centrality to the
project. In the field of visual art for example, there can be some limitations related
to the use of secondary sources for analysis and discussion—material, spatial and
tactile and other sensory aspects of experiencing the work may be lost.
In any of the disciplines where human subjects are involved—either in interviews
or as actual subjects to be represented, researchers must comply with ethics clear-
ance procedures set by the institution administering the research.
Usefulness and Functionality of Primary Sources

Primary sources can serve a range of functions:
• provide context and pedigree for the practice;

APPENDIX 189
• locate the research in both a historical and contemporary context;
• provide points of methodological and practical comparison and discussion;
• indicate a gap, or elucidate significance of the research;
• demonstrate how practice informs theory.
Directed Reading and Discussion

Research reading should be:
• inspirational;
• raise immediately relevant questions;
• inspire or clarify practice;
• advance the research thesis.
The relevance of subject matter and types of practices involved in the studio en-
quiry will determine what will be covered and discussed in the literature review (it is
easy to get side-tracked by other fascinating discoveries!). The paradigms in which
the enquiry is operating, and the conceptual and methodological frameworks, will
also be influential as is direct reading and the consideration of the work of other
practitioners.
Above all, the research question/thesis statement should direct the literature and
practice review. It is useful to apply the following questions to materials and ideas
that have been sourced:
• How does it support my position (thesis or hypothesis/practice)?
• In what way can my position/practice/thesis be a critique or interrogation or

clarification of this of this material, ideas or practice?
• In what way is this to the side of my position and must therefore be omitted or
shown to be not directly relevant to the research?
• How does it provide background/contextualise my practice and thesis?
• Is the theoretical paradigm or fundamental concept contained in this material

part of my analytical/methodological framework?
• What gap does this project fill in relation to the understandings, methods, ideas
that are contained in the reading or practice being considered?
The Primacy of Practice

Practice is primary; it should never illustrate theory. It is easy to lose track of
this when conducting the literature review.
Citation and Referencing

In creative arts research writing, citation and referencing should be consistent
and comprehensive and footnotes should be kept to a minimum to allow coher-
ent dialogue between theory and practice.
APPENDIX 191
3. Creative Arts Research: Materials, Methods and Conceptual Frameworks
Research Methodology
Creative arts research methodology has many components that may be understood
through the term “bricolage” (see earlier chapters in this book). The materials and
methods used by the artist are not innocent—they are encoded with historical
knowledge and conventions and are therefore inextricably bound to conceptual and
theoretical frameworks. Scientific research deals with a number of conventions that
relate to materials and methods: assumptions, apparatus, instrumentation, proce-
dures, observations, methods of data collection, ethical considerations, safeguards
and calculations. In established fields of research research, many of the above are
relatively fixed and pertain to the scientific method. Creative arts researchers can
adapt some of these conventions and will need to add others according to the par-
ticular nature of the studio enquiry.
Materials, Methods and Assumptions

The materials and methods used in the studio form part of the enquiry itself—of-
ten the process involves inventing new methods and using new or unconventional
materials. Materials and methods that are relatively fixed in science research, are also
encoded, though many science researchers would take the meanings that adhere to
their use as ‘givens’. In artistic practice, we constantly question the underlying as-
sumptions and meanings related to the materials and methods that we use—it is not
just about making meaning with what we have at hand, but of making new ways of
making meaning through practical invention.
Examples:
• Oil and Canvas—“old masters”, western patriarchal tradition;
• Tapestry, craft based practices using domestic materials—deliberate insertion of

unconventional materials as feminist critique and intervention;
• Digital technology—allows new and different ways of revealing and modelling.
Reasons and Justification for Choice

The researcher will need to explain reasons for choice of materials and methods and
link this to the broader conceptual approach. Possible aspects to consider include:
• Influence, indebtedness, intertextuality;
• New form of expression or way of revealing;
• Critique;
• Technical solution to a problem;
• Philosophical or social considerations;
• Area of expertise, inspiration, desire;
• Other? (This will be influenced by the area of practice involved).
Genres
The forms or broad approaches selected will also carry meanings and assumptions.
The artist as researcher may want to celebrate critique, extend, revise or even incrimi-
nate the work of earlier practitioners. Depending on the nature of the enquiry, there
may be very specific reasons for selecting a particular genre and these will need to be
outlined so that some relationship or comparison can be made with earlier and more
contemporary practices. A writer may deliberately choose fantasy or science fiction
as part of the approach and methodology. Each of the creative arts disciplines draws
on antecedents in designing the studio enquiry. In many instances creative arts re-
search projects may cross disciplinary boundaries.
Procedure/Processes
The researcher will need to explain the following:
• What will be done;
• How it will be done;
• Time frame and relation to researcher’s previous work;
• Recording of observations and documentation of the studio process.
Approach and Methodological Frameworks

In science this might involve measurements, tables, graphs and so on. In artistic
research data collection might involve the keeping of visual and other journals,
sketches, photographs, filmed documentation, recordings, interviews and other in-
ventive methodologies. The approach used will reveal “data” to be discovered and
discussed.
Observations:
• What happened?
• What changed?
• What was revealed?

APPENDIX 193
• What is significant—(what was revealed that could not have been revealed
through any other method of enquiry)?
• How does this compare with the work/ideas of others?
• What were the problems encountered?
Ethical Considerations
From the outset of the project, the researcher will need to consider certain implica-
tions related to the mode of practice:
• Nature of representation;
• Permission of subject to use material in research;
• Appropriation of materials and copyright issues;
• Permission to tape record conversation;
• Invasion of privacy;
• Confidentiality;
• Other?
Conceptual/ Theoretical Framework

This is often the most difficult aspect for creative arts researchers who often assert
that their work should stand alone as practice. However, no practice occurs in a
vacuum and in order gain the endorsement of a higher degree, artistic researchers
must fulfil the requirements of scholarly research.
Creative arts research is a relatively new discipline, which requires a certain degree
of meta-discourse or explanation of just how practice operates as the production
of knowledge. This requires showing how the dialogue between theory and practice
emerges in the project. Conceptual and theoretical frameworks provide a means
through which to discuss practice as research and to locate the studio enquiry within
the context of historical, social, political and contemporary ideas relating to practice.
Part of the research process involves the identification of analytical and interpretive
frameworks that relate to the area of concern. Such frameworks will often provide
interpretive models to be applied in the discussion section of the research exegesis
or paper. Often, the contribution to knowledge in creative arts research, is the dis-
covery of new methodologies and interpretive frameworks.
Examples of broad frameworks or paradigms that may be familiar to arts research-
ers include:
• Marxism;
• Freudian Psychoanalysis;
• Feminism;
• Iconography;
• Formalism;
• Semiotics.
In conclusion, materials, methods and conceptual frameworks shape and determine

the kind of knowledge that will be produced through studio enquiry.
APPENDIX 195
4. The Exegesis: Discussion of the Studio Research Process

It should be remembered that the function of the research paper or exegesis is to
discuss and replicate the process of studio enquiry within the context of theoretical
ideas and practices that are relevant to the researcher’s own work as well as within the
broader context that views creative arts practice as the production of knowledge.
This section of the paper is normally covered in the fourth section or chapter and
comes after the researcher has located the project in the field of theory and practice
through reference to relevant reading and the practices of others. It focuses very
closely on the actual studio process and the outcomes of that process as research and
should consistently relate back to stated aims and objectives and the hypothesis or
thesis statement.
The visual diary and/or journal notes, archival material and other documentation
will be crucial here. If process work has been well-kept and dated, it will provide
the basic material required for critical engagement in the writing of this part of the
paper. Discussions should involve more than mere description and can include:
• critical engagement and cross-referencing with theory and practice;
• Identification of significant moments and breakthroughs;
• Outline of specific details of materials, methods and processes that allowed the
breakthroughs or new understandings to occur;
• Making of comparisons between this project and the work of other practition-
ers including researcher’s own contemporaries in the field of practice;
• Determining whether the project has opened up potential for further practice
and enquiry in the area.
Originality
This is often not easy to identify or articulate, but the use of comparison will often
illuminate how the project goes beyond what has already been done. It is useful to
look for small advances on previous ideas and practice and to ensure sincerity and
authenticity of the process is made evident. It is also important to avoid pomposity
and the making of grandiose claims.
When To Do It
This part of the exegesis is written when the bulk of the studio work is complete.
However, most research students write as the work proceeds because discoveries are
made along the way. Often the final body of work to be exhibited extends on earlier
discovery and this can come in a later section. Some retrospective adjustments to the
research paper/exegesis are usually needed once all studio work has been completed.
There should be a sustained dialogue between progress of studio work and writing.
Risks in Discussing and Writing About The Studio Process and Completed Work
This section of the paper should be relatively straightforward. Researchers in other
fields are required to do this and are accustomed to maintaining the distanced and
more objective discourse that accompanies traditional research approaches. Risks
attendant in the writing of this and later sections of the creative arts research paper
may include:
• Illustrating theory in the studio practice;
• Incommensurate or conflicting demands of the two processes that may lead to

a loss of inspiration—practice is primary and it is always useful for researchers
to return to spontaneous making of work if they are blocked;
• Writing (and reading) may limit the kind of visual work produced, especially if
there is very little theory and practice in the chosen area of enquiry.
Finding a balance between influence and inspiration is not always easy. It is impor-
tant that the creative arts researchers avoid any tendency to make work that is easily
translated into writing or is forced to fit into theoretical ideas. With an appropriate
research design and methodology, this should not occur.
APPENDIX 197
5. Discussion of Outcomes and Significance

This section of the exegesis is usually done when the bulk of the studio work is
complete and the researcher has considered material from journals and other archi-
val material as well as scholarly research. Whilst this part of the exegesis should be
easier than earlier sections because theoretical and methodological frameworks have
been established, there is still a need to make choices about what will be presented
and how the material will be woven into the general argument. Understanding the
relationship between the various sections of the research writing will help the crea-
tive arts researcher to clarify what should be included in this part of the writing.
Consider the conventional writing schema below:
INTRODUCTION Poses a question or problem, WHY?

outlines background states WHAT IF? THEN…
aims, hypothesis, thesis
statement.
CONCEPTUAL Locates the research in the WHO?

FRAMEWORKS field and identifies a gap in
LITERATURE REVIEW knowledge.
MATERIALS Outlines what was done to

answer or investigate the
METHODS HOW?
question—describes process
of investigation (established
and relatively stable).
DISCUSSION Closely analyses or discusses WHAT?

RESULTS the results or what emerged.
OUTCOMES
DISCUSSION States what outcomes are SO WHAT?
SIGNIFICANCE significant in terms of the
research question/thesis
within the context of other
practices and theoretical
discourses. Articulates
broader application of
findings and reiterates value
of practice as production of
knowledge
It should be noted that this schema outlines an approach that mirrors the approach
of more traditional research and research writing.
Creative Arts practice as research: an amended writing schema:
INTRODUCTION Poses a question or problem, outlines WHY?

background states aims, hypothesis, thesis WHAT IF?
statement and briefly outlines approach to THEN…
be taken.
LITERATURE Locates the research in the field of WHO? WHEN?

REVIEW theory and identifies a gap in knowledge. WHERE?
CONCEPTUAL Establishes interpretive paradigms.
FRAMEWORKS
PRACTICE REVIEW Locates the research in the field of creative WHO? WHEN?
practice; context of practice includes WHERE?
discussion of antecedents as well as
contemporaries, and locates a gap or need
for further practice.
MATERIALS Provides rationale and outline of what was WHY? HOW?

METHODS done to answer or investigate the question.
The research may draw on conventional
research methods and practices, but is
emergent, not completely pre-determined or
fixed. Describes the studio process and its
significant moments.
Reiterates conceptual frameworks in

relation to studio process.
DISCUSSION Analyses and interprets the body of work WHAT?

RESULTS or artefact that emerged in relation to
OUTCOMES research question and or the hypothesis/
thesis.
DISCUSSION States what outcomes are significant in SO WHAT?

SIGNIFICANCE terms of the research question/thesis
within the context of other practices and
theoretical discourses. Articulates broader
application of findings and reiterates value
of practice as production of knowledge.
In some instances creative arts researcher will have a more thematic arrangement
of sections with titles that reflect these. However even in the most unconventional
theses, the approach outlined here will provide a cohering framework for writing up
the research.
APPENDIX 199
Re-versioning/Retelling
This part of the research paper/exegesis is a re-versioning or retelling of the proc-
ess as well as the discussion work itself. The discussion should focus not only on the
researcher’s own processes and revelations, but should also evaluate these within the
context of relevant theoretical ideas and in relation to the stated aims and objectives
as well as the ideas and practices of other practitioners in the field.
The discussion should always relate back to your thesis statement and hypothesis
and will involve comparison of your work with the work of others as well as you
own earlier work.
Visuals
This section will include the bulk of your visual images, though you may have in-
serted some images (of your own work and the work of others) to make various
points in earlier parts of the exegesis.
It is crucial that all visual are labelled and numbered. Where they have been taken
from elsewhere, all material should be suitably referenced at the point of insertion in
the paper as well as in a lists of plates and the bibliography.
Discussion of the significance of the work

The significance of the work should focus on the question: What has the studio enquiry
revealed that could not have been revealed through other modes of research?
Significance may also be related to:
• The connection and/or affinity the work has with other practices;
• How it has advanced theoretical ideas, understandings and practice in the field;
• Whether it has questioned/challenged existing techniques, methods and ideas;
• The level to which it has allowed the researcher to advance or resolve problems
issues related to their own practice and personal modes of expression and un-
derstanding;
• The degree to which the research can be extended and applied in future prac-
tices and theory including applications beyond the field of creative arts.
6. Writing The Conclusion

No new information is added in this section. However, there is still some place for
synthesis in terms of setting down broad generalisations arising from the discussion
of the process and outcomes or results of the studio enquiry.
The conclusion serves the following functions:
• Presents generalisations that validate or qualify the thesis statement or hypoth-

esis—these are at a broader level than those made in the discussion section. The
generalisations and conclusions must relate to aims objectives and questions
posed at the outset of the project;
• Points out the implications of the enquiry for theory and practice. Such implica-
tions are more speculative or far reaching than those discussed previously and
may extend beyond the field of creative arts;
• Reiterates the value and significance of the project and of creative arts research
methodologies and their capacity to reveal new knowledge;
• Makes recommendations or indicates direction for future work;
• In some cases the conclusion may also point out the limitations of the research
process.
APPENDIX 201
7. Practice as Research: The Abstract
WHY? HOW? WHAT? SO WHAT?
The abstract is sometimes the hardest part of the exegesis to write. It should be
no more than one page in length and is best done after the exegesis has been com-
pleted.
The abstract is a ‘mini’ exegesis – it summarises the following:
• Aim;
• Methods/content;
• New understandings/outcomes;
• Significance and relevance of the enquiry.
The abstract should answer the following questions:
• Why was the research conducted?
• How was the research conducted?
• What were the main outcomes and results?
• What were the principal conclusions derived from the results or outcomes?
• So what is the significance of the research conclusions and outcomes?
If possible the abstract should also state what the studio enquiry revealed that could
not have been revealed through other modes of enquiry/research.
8. Writing The Creative Arts Research Exegesis: A Summary

Overview
Creative arts exegeses can take many forms including some very experimental and
creative ones. It is often risky to use unconventional forms of writing, though some-
times such deviations work very well. Irrespective of the form chosen, it is necessary
for the research paper or exegesis to fulfil the functions outlined in the suggested
format below.
It is also crucial to write about the studio production and outcomes as research. The ex-
egesis is primarily concerned with process rather than product. Researchers need to con-
sider what they hope to discover or achieve and describe the methods and approaches
used to make the discovery. The following questions should guide the writing:
• What did the studio enquiry reveal that may not have been revealed through
other modes of enquiry?
• What methods and approaches were developed through the studio production
that allowed the discoveries to be made?
• How does the completed work perform, model or demonstrate the new knowl-
edge/understandings gained through the studio process?
• How might these understanding be applied both within the field and creative
arts discipline as well as beyond it?
• How does practice inform theory?
Front Pages
The Title Page:
This comes first and should contain:
• Full title of the work;
• Name of writer;
• Qualifications of writer;
• Statement of which degree is being fulfilled;
• Institution and date.
Candidate Declaration Page:

This page is in template form and is a declaration that the work has not been submit-
ted elsewhere for an award.
APPENDIX 203
Abstract:
This is a summary of your exegesis in no more than one page. It is a ‘mini’ exegesis
and should include: background, aims and objectives, major outcomes and signifi-
cance of the project.
Acknowledgements:
In no more than one page, acknowledge those who have assisted the project in any
way including supervisors, receipt of scholarships/awards and other.
Table of contents:
Includes a list of chapter titles and their commencing page numbers.
List of Plates and Illustrations:

These should be listed using appropriate referencing format, but in order of appear-
ance and showing page numbers where they are placed in the exegesis.
The Introduction
This is a crucial opening to the thesis and is a summary of the entire project. It cov-
ers the following in brief, but not necessarily in the order presented below:
• Statement of aims and objectives;
• Articulation of research questions;
• Hypothesis/thesis statement or argument (derived from the research

question[s]);
• Centrality and relevance of the topic;
• Current practice and knowledge in the area—brief outline background as well

as context of practice and context of theory;
• The project’s relationship to current practice and knowledge—for example will

it extend critique, reappraise what has already been done or is known;
• Indication of gap/need for your research—rationale and statement outlining

significance of the research and why the research is worth doing;
• Brief outline of materials, methods and conceptual frameworks and justification

for applying these—include definition of terms where appropriate;
• Outline of content of chapters.

The Body of The Exegesis

This will vary but is usually consist of four to five chapters or sections. The titles
of these chapters can reflect the major themes related to the project rather than the
functions as implied by the sub-headings below.
Section One:
• Locate the research in the field of practice. Consider at the outset, which art-
ist/performers will be used to contextualise and/or illustrate the central thesis
or argument. This section involves reviewing both literature on practices as well
as direct engagement with actual examples of creative practice—exhibitions,
performances and other artefacts;
• Elaborate details of material, methods and approaches of past and current prac-
tices as they relate to the project;
• Explain how the studio enquiry might challenges or extend contemporary and
other practices and show how the research undertaken will fill a gap or extend
knowledge and practice in the field;
• It is important to refer to artistic practice and its contribution to knowledge in

the area of concern rather than to privilege theory.
Section Two:
This chapter outlines of the context of theory. It should locate the studio enquiry
in the field of theory through literature review. It should also outline conceptual
frameworks and philosophical or discursive paradigms that provide a context for the
studio work as well as a model for analysing and assessing the significance of the
outcomes of the research as practice. This chapter develops a framework for analy-
sis and interpretation of the outcomes of the studio enquiry and may also indicate
broader applications of the findings.
Section Three:
This should include discussion of the studio process. Diary/journals/notes as well
as process works are discussed where relevant. It is important to identify signifi-
cant moments and breakthroughs in the research process and elucidate what was re-
vealed in those moments or how they allowed the researcher to advance the enquiry
through practice.
This section will be an extension of arguments through critical and comparative
engagement with practice and theory as developed in early sections
Section Four:
This section usually involves close reading, discussion and analysis of major work or
outcomes of the project—performance, creative writing, paintings be exhibited etc.
APPENDIX 205
It should focus on how the work demonstrates breakthrough, originality and dis-
covery of new knowledge. The researcher can refer to the artists discussed in the
context of practice chapter and show how the work produced has extended the field,
and provided new insights and understandings. Analysis will be informed by the
theoretical paradigms and frameworks developed in the earlier part of the thesis.
This section may also include discussion of how the outcomes of the research
may be applied beyond the field or discipline within which it is located.
9. The Conclusion
This section involves a summing up of outcomes, significance and applications of
what has been revealed through the studio process. It can also point out limitations
of the project and the degree to which directions that have been opened up for
future research.
10. Citation and Referencing

Citation and referencing should be comprehensive and consistent. For practice/ex-
egesis projects the use of footnotes should be kept to a minimum to ensure coherent
dialogue between visual material and the writing.
11. Appendix
Attachments of additional material referred to in the exegesis can be included where
it extends understanding of the research process.

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PRACTICE AS RESEARCH

Estelle Barrett and Barbara Bolt

In the United States of America and Canada distributed by Palgrave Macmillan

Copyright © Estelle Barrett & Barbara Bolt

ISBN: 978 1 84511 432 9

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: available

Printed and bound in Great Britain by TJ International Ltd, Padstow, Cornwall

List of Illustrations vii

Introduction Estelle Barrett 1

Chapter 1 Interest: The Ethics of Invention Paul Carter 15

Chapter 2 The Magic is in Handling Barbara Bolt 27

Chapter 3 History Documents, Arts Reveals: Creative

Chapter 4 Cutting Choreography: Back and Forth Between

Chapter 5 “Silent” Speech Annette Iggulden 65

Chapter 6 Chamber : Experiencing Masculine Identity

Chapter 7 Rhizome/MyZone: A Case Study in Studio–based

Chapter 8 A Correspondence Between Practices Stephen Goddard 113

Chapter 9 Creating New Stories For Praxis: Navigations,

Chapter 10 Foucault’s ‘What is An Author’: Towards a Critical

Chapter 11 Rupture and Recognition: Identifying The Performative

Chapter 12 The Exegesis as Meme Estelle Barrett 159

1. Barbara Bolt, Drawings of Grant, eyeballed and living projection, 2005. 28

2. Barbara Bolt, Kalgoorlie Landscape, oil on ply, 1992. 32

4. Annette Iggulden, from the series Enunciation: ‘A Feather on the Breath …’

Art as the Production of Knowledge

addressed through an evaluation and analysis of successfully completed creative arts

Experiential Learning and Knowledge

Interdisciplinarity and Creative Arts Research

Beyond the Quantum: Rethinking Cultural Capital

gible the theoretical. Her practice-led research resulted in an externalisation of the

principally, on Michel Foucault’s essay ‘What is an author’ and Donna Haraway’s

INTEREST: THE ETHICS

It is in this context that I speak of strong collaboration:

When nationally valuable research is identiﬁed with scientiﬁc and technological

ties of self-sufﬁciency, repetition, smoothness, symmetry and global homogeneity.

Materials become material signs when, in the process of creative collaboration,

Second, I described what I called “The Asterisk Principle”, arguing that:

In practice-based research, ethically-sustainable invention responds, I would suggest,

repair); it may take the form of a developing conversation leading to a collabora-

and local responsibilities in the chaotic marble cake of American government.

As I have documented elsewhere, the discovery of the Kimberley sandstone was

THE MAGIC IS IN HANDLING

From these original investigations and drawing experiments, Hockney came to

Barbara Bolt, Kalgoorlie Landscape, oil on ply, 1992

• This sense of multiplicity in my work causes me to question boundaries between

• Even while I am treating autobiographical traces in my creative writing, the

Fiction and Autobiography

my way over the land. I hear hammering in the distance—renovation, con-

Practice and Knowledge

My reading of Camera Lucida is that it addresses far more than photographs. It

The Act of Writing as Revealing

unfettered imagination that is most likely to yield surprises. History documents

CUTTING CHOREOGRAPHY: BACK

In choreographing for video, I am exploring mechanisms by which I can translate

1. The Place Where You Are - Something Is Missing

I am “called” to ﬁlmmaking because of the intimacy available in the form, because

I think most of my movement is driven by a sense of rhythm and timing. It

of image design or movement motifs, I aim to build a history, a familiarity between

…Memory is embedded in our very act of seeing and movement seems to