About Our Art / ‘Terminalista’

Time lapse: it’s International Women’s Day and I am talking about the 23rd February still (so I’ll do IWD after this) – which in itself became a double occasion: I went to see the exhibition in which I had pieces in, and this happened on Terminalia Day, the annual festival of psychogeography – named after Terminus, Roman god of boundaries – edges between spaces, critical or lurid lines, which we psychogeographers are so interested in.


And so I went to the South-East, (see previous post), to Torquay – (time lapse, space lapse), to see The Art of You – so this exhibition is ‘about our art’, whereas my Terminalia festival participation means, I’d suggest, that I am a Terminalista.


So here it is: my pieces and the journey, oh where to start! Let me start at the intersection of the two. My prime piece in the exhibition (for it was the only framed one) was my Orkweed, which, by being framed, made a journey down the coastlines! It’s a seaweed from Orkney, so I called it Orkweed. Within Orkney, it is from the small but beautiful island of Papa Westray – and now it was on show in Torquay. So it’s travelled a long way but it’s stayed close to the coast, so it was still in its favourite surrounding there! It’s made a connection, a line, from Papa Westray to Torquay, and I made a line by ‘taking’ it, photographically (think Richard Long, ‘line artist’ (I mean his work ‘A Line made by Walking’) – and here developed a long line from northern Scottish coast, where I ‘took’ it, to southern Devon coast, where it was ‘hung’).


The Journey 

Getting there, on Terminalia Festival Day, was an ‘unpsychogeographic’ act in the traditional sense, in that psychogeography is about walking, (and making sense of space while walking) , and here my major travel piece was a train journey.  Therefore I had three ‘pieces’: First to Paddington – requiring movements within London to get  there – then the train bound for Paignton, get off second to last stop Torquay, and then the Torquay walk. So the train enabled a transition between two large spaces. The train-


journey was also a very different sort of boundary (or anti-boundary!) between my walks: a connecting one. The journey was ‘moving’ (well, not surprisingly)., especially when I passed by Newbury: here I would, once upon a time, have gotten off to get to Greenham Common Women’s Peace Camp. Wow! How many peacemakers and feminists got off here not too long ago – and now it looks as if nothing had ever happened!  Like an erasure, a place with a high risk of forgetting.

The other big event on the journey which involved a lot of ‘moving’ was the bit by the


coastline, the moving, rising, roaring sea, especially the journey through delightful Dawlish. The waves were so high that I worried the line we were travelling on might


break once again, like it did in 2014. Devon might sound mellow, but this coast certainly wasn’t – it felt more like in the Outer Hebrides than Devon. Apparently this was already the beginning of Storm Emma, and the following week, after both snow and storm, the train station turned into a waterway rather than a railway.

Then came Torquay: hill harbour – one stop after Torre which is just the hill in itself. So there’s an upstairs downstairs thing going on here. Even musically it sounds that way: Tor-quay: I could sing it like a kind of echo sent from up high, to reach down below. Harbour Deep Mountain High! I knew before that Torre is another station in Torquay,


but I thought it was on a different line – now I realised that both stations are on the same line! How interesting to find just how dots are connected by lines, and sometimes all the dots you find may be connected by a single line!

Starting my walk, I go to the sea first, for this is the edge, as far as I can go. And now I


find the tide is low! This happens to me a lot: whenever I go to the sea, the tide is low! That means, the land is more exposed, parts of the beach can be seen which are regularly submerged by water. I am, as usual, more likely to meet the times of exposure, the receding tide, coupled with the expanding land. I like this: it’s the ebb tide I am used to,and the ebb tide I like: when stones and seaweed, shells and things, are appearing, and when birds have more space to stand on the wet sand of these expanding between-times. It’s ephemeral at this outer edge before the waterline.

Then I walk up the hill to the hostel I am staying at, and on the way I pass by the famous


Torre Abbey, and by the Artizan gallery where my Orkweed is in and all other things gallery. Just before getting there, I found a symbolism for dots arranged into a single line, with ventilators on a low rooftop in a row – like the stations: dots on the same line, not


different. Then i find an eggbox-mask, later a ‘gardener’, on the street!


The exhibition

The Art of You exhibition was great. We were a bunch of diverse artists, with diverse work. All of us showed our personal relationship to Art, and what it does for us. What stood out was that those of us with belongings in different places – i.e. origins in more than one country –used our art as a way to show how our different origins connect with each other, so art relates to identity and to our multicultural-ness. So art becomes a thing beyond art too, it becomes a medium, an instrument, a platform to speak and to show with. It reminds me of Steve Bandoma who said “ my culture is my physique, my art is my metaphysique.

My exhibits were, apart from my Orkweed were  a ‘Leaf in the Light’ and a a flower ‘Sun-Soaked and Serene’. And then there was my narrative. How art relates to


psychogeography, and how I related to the two and all that stuff. I could go on and on but won’t because I haven’t written enough about the other artists either! There was lots of deep work, the one that immediately appealed to me was Muhammad Taymour’s ‘Gazing Game’: a film about how we gaze at each other, using surreal ‘substitutes, starting with what i thought was a parody on ‘how did the chicken cross the road’. Well yes, how do we cross, whatever ‘crossing’ may be mean, and when do we cross, and do we cross at all, or do we go in a straight line on the same side of whatever path we are following, never crossing over? Oh, and now, at the time of writing, the next exhibition is on already, so go and find out, it’s in the nicely painted turquoise building in Lucius Street.

‘London Bridge’

The remainder of my exhibition and Terminalia weekend was a wider exploration of south Devon just before the snow fell in. So there is more to say, more to write, as usual. I found a ‘piggy island’ off the coast, which is a rock that looks like a piggy in the sea. And then I found ‘London Bridge’! This sounds like a joke but walk along the coast, just


outside Torquay harbour on the coastal path, there comes Beacon Cove, Peaked Tor Cove, and then London Bridge! There’s a Daddyhole Plain too look… London pops up everywhere, it seems I didn’t need to go back then?!






It’s in the South-West!

In the South-West: Exhibition!

It’s in Torquay, to be more precise, at the Artizan Gallery, to be most precise! And I am in

it, and the Private View is tonight! February seems to become my exhibition-month, as I

was in the last exhibition last year February. That was with “Traditions” in the Art Pavillion, now it’s “The Art of You”.

“The Art of You” is about our art-process as artists, it’s an explorative and a personal show. So I love that, as I always combine the inside and the outside– and not surprisingly, for me it’s a psychogeographic art process. It is psychogeographic exactly because it allows me to do what I instinctively have done: combine inner and outer worlds. This

inner/outer combination, the inner: personal/psychic, and the outer: place/space/geography/public/political. It’s an approach, too, where things are spaces,

with angles, perspectives, forms, shapes, with lines, circles, edges, and bridges over boundaries, hinterland and unconscious. This interplay can be sheer beauty, but it can also be tense, highlighting injustice for example. So it’s here where the stories are that I want to show, write, tell.

Story spaces   These story-spaces range from the magical to the political, so there’s a desire, or even a need, for an identification and recognition of these stories and engagement with them. You can read or see this in my contributions to this exhibition.

I look forward to the other artists’ contributions to the show, there’ll be an interesting dialogue in our work I can imagine. It’s all very exciting as we all don’t know who the other artists are, so we’ll all be in for a thrilling surprise! So let’s go and see!

Private View is tonight –which would have been my grandmother’s 108th birthday. I’ll miss the pv but will go there later, and to the sea! The show is on until the 2nd March. The Gallery is at nr 7, Lucius Street, right in the middle between Torre and Torquay train stations – i.e. between hill and harbour!  Opening times are 12 – 6, Monday to Saturday.

Enjoy the space, the show, the place, the private view – or any other viewing afterwards!

100 years + 10

100 years + 10 of Women’s Suffrage this is of course! 100 years old today on the 6th February 2018. 100 years old for the over-30 year-old women and the property owners. So that really means that I, for example, who is merely renting and quite poor,


would still have been disenfranchised! I am old enough, but not a property owner. Hard luck, I would have had til 1928, to get my vote, another 10 years! That’s why the title 100 years plus 10. Or maybe I should say 100 years minus 10, because my centenary anniversary is in 2028, whereas this year marks is 90 years.

Isle of Women

Of course, how old my right to vote is depends on which country I am in. In Germany, women’s centenary of the right to vote is in November of this year, whereas on the Isle of Man – Isle of Women I’d say! –our right to vote is well over a hundred years old. Women received the right to vote in as far back as 1881! Well done to enlightened them!

Marking the Day

To mark the day, I grabbed an old T-shirt of mine, bought a marker (see, I marked the


day!) that lasts on fabric, and wrote Votes for Women on it! After all, I need it for another 10 years until I can mark the centenary of votes for poor women like me, who don’t own property.

Then I left the house and before going to work, I went down to my local suffragette! I mean, I went to see a sculpture of her! She stands outside Finsbury Park station since


2013. I had read that she stands there, but I could never find her, so this time I wanted to find her! Most people don’t seem to notice, nobody I asked, knew about her. The things we don’t see, it’s alarming!

To get to Finsbury Park station from my house takes me through Finsbury Park park! This is always a treat, since it is so full of history right up suffragette street! It’s also been named the People’s Park. Sylvia Pankhurst spoke here in 1916. Throughout the first


world war there were many pacifist gatherings here. This tradition continued later with CND, and antiracist meetings, rallies and festivals. CND lived in the road next door.


Suffragette Appreciation

Back to my local suffragette: Her name is Edith Garrud and she is the one famous for teaching Jiu-Jitsu to her fellow suffragettes, so that they can defend themselves.

The sculpture is in form of a silhouette, as you see on the photo, and, though she is there with two other local heroes, and all of them are outside this busy tube- and train station, they all seem to be easily overlooked. The other local hero in that silhouette-trio is Florence Keene, who founded Manor Park Centre (then North Islington School for Mothers) in 1913! The third local hero to be honoured is Jazz B, co-founder of Soul 2 Soul.


Sisters, and all, next time you pass by Finsbury Park station, look out for your suffragette, and give thanks for your right! And try to find out who your local suffragette is, so that we could all know this just like we know who our local MP is – and then we can make a suffragette-map!




Start the Year with Words

They say that in the beginning there were words. So I thought let’s start the year with some of those words, as they happen in poems!

And I’ll do more than just make a start with them: I want to play around with beginnings, middles and endings! And, as ever, with forms: so I’ve gone for a ‘poetripych’ – i.e. I put  three poems together!

So here is one from last April, which could be a beginning too: “Like life turned”. Then I’ll have “Earth Script” from May, and then ‘Once you know’ from last week.

A whole lot more words happened this last year (and a whole lot more than words too!), centering on some kind of psychogeography of the interior. So there’s more, and more, and much, but this is the good thing: the beginning – i.e. when there were words – is endless! And therefore: to be continued at all times!

Like life turned

Reflections in the river like life turned upside down

And in a good way: things are seen, and to be viewed, on their head

So we know that we usually only see half of everything


Nature for a sense of orientation

Look at the sky with its clouds: you know they’ve travelled, like you

They’ve travelled, but nobody knows. You could spot them

In any country, but you don’t know if it’s the same cloud; or it might

Not have existed then when the sky was somewhere else

It’s so ephemeral, each cloud: an ephemeral phenomenon


I always look up with amazement at the sky-scape

And find that clouds look like landscapes

In their outlines, with the clouds representing land

And the sky as the water, an airy sky-ocean

So a cloud is like an island, an ephemeral island


But moving like a fish through the water-sky

The wind like a stream in the sky

Sky-river, air-water

Wind-ocean, flood heaven


Ideas for elemental interchange

After all, both elements excel

In appearing blue to us


Reflections in the river like life turned upside down

In these two blue tones of these interchangeable elements

The lighter blue of the daylight sky as background to the landscape

With the darker blue of the river as background to the reflection

In the river, beyond ground, in the water

One image in both directions

Upside down and downside up

Reflections in the river like life turned upside.                                      © Ursula Troche, 4.17

Earth -script

Uprisings in the land

Showing themselves up as mountains

Land-risings, earth-elevations, soil-shapes

Uprisings as land-risings

Rocks enabling higher levels


Rock-formations by sea

Looking like books, piled

Up on top of each other

A reminder that nature, too, has

Within it, books!


News from the Neolithic and

News from Nowhere combined

Leading to new insights

There are oracles for this in sight


Read from here, read this!

This original earth-script

Earth scripted text


Then there are scriptural transitions

Shadow-lands and light-lands

Intermingling at Lands’ Edge by the sea

Here, where solid lines are softly washed away

Wiped out, watered down, in wavy rhythms

As waves are washing away patterns

Between shadow and light

Achieving solidifications of movement


Earth script with sea-script, textual, perpetual

Animation, configurations everywhere

Polyrhythmic orchestrations

Of the earth, with all its elements



Read them from here

At least give it a try to access knowledge here

This is what the ancestors did too

This is where they found out about the disruptions too

Do we remember?                                                                          © Ursula Troche, 5.17

Once you know

Unforeseen circumstances

Unforeseen arrangement

Unforeseen waters in between

And seaside edges that remain

Unknown until you move along until you

Encounter the water

Inside a time like this, for example


Like an unforeseen sighting

You are encountering another dimension

Imagine: this is where I live like this!

Like being submerged with water

One might say

Off the edge, of the land, that one knows

For these are the things that one knows

Unlike fluid, risky, wondrous water


In the water: engage with the art of recognition

So you can recognize, even by itself, the water

Thereby re-organise your oversight

Drip with it!

Feel it falling!

Feel it rolling down to be noticed

That’s how you’ll recognise the water!


The water, the unforeseen the unseen:

Find out where they are, where

They might leave their traces

… trace …

Once you find it you could even lose it

That’ ok, the difference is

You know it is somewhere!

You wouldn’t say it is not there!                                                                © Ursula Troche, 1.18


“Train Lines”

“Train lines” – draw (attention to the) movement

How many times have i been sitting on a train, reading a book, then trying to under-line

a sentence in book, and then it all goes wrong.  I mean it’s the underlining that goes wrong. What goes wrong is not the train or my reading but the line! Due to the movement of the train, the line I would make would hardly be straight.

So then I decided I don’t need straight lines if I gave the line the space it needed. Rather than make a line to underline something, I would just ‘line’! Just do the line for itself, make a line in its own right. That line would be and be able to become what it wants to be: a line made in a process of motion, a line drawn to whatever it gets drawn to, a line alive! A line which I would allow to go where it wants to go, a line that will take itself for a walk, outlined by the process of motion and myself as the drawer.

This line then, with its inevitable squiggles, leaps and loops and possible roundabout ways, would capture the movement of the train perfectly, and thus too the terrain in translation, the t(er)rain. A line that would reflect process: process-line, motion line, recording line.  A line like a kind of seismograph too.

A line to echo the train-line, for that is what it would record: the motion of that line which the train makes, takes. And so the line I would draw would become an echo of this line: one line echoing another, a line to echo a train line: hence a ‘train line’.

So I don’t really draw, a let the line be drawn.  So let’s go! I started with this on the Docklands Light Railway. And as I started, issues of representation posed themselves immediately, quickly, to be dealt with on the spot.

I had a little notebook with me, even smaller than A5, A6! The distance between one stop and another one on this ‘line’ is not far: between each stop there is maybe two or three minutes. Even so: drawing the line from page to page into my notebook seemed impossible still – the line would still be, become, impossibly long. I could slow down my way of drawing, recording the line, but it would still take up too much space: I just couldn’t be slow enough!

So I drew the line back and forth on the page. That’s a bit more like a text format, but not quite, because I wanted to line to be continuous, so as to have a more adequate representation of ‘reality’.

I don’t need a straight line, I need a representational line – or rather, a line which is made of of its movement, with its sound, on the one hand, and me on the other. So I don’t just draw the line, I let myself be drawn by the line as well, and even to it: it’s a communication between me and the line: we have a kind of conversation!

Line liberation this is! Take the line where it takes you! Don’t just take the line for a walk, don’t even just ‘walk the line’ but ride (with) the line, draw the line, draw alongside it, be drawn forward by it. Line on!

With all this motion, how do I draw the line? So now the question has moved from ’where’ to ‘how’. Such movements of questions, and their attendant issues, are exciting transformations. Us and the line. Train line, life line, linings. And there are more lines: remember Richard Long’s ‘Line made by Walking’. Here now, is a line drawn by travelling – along a line that the train takes/makes. So here’s the line-dance: me and the train, we both make a line!

Drawing this process of the line, the procession of the train, what does it mean? Is it just a recording or is it more than that? Is this how I connect to the process of my momentary experience? It’s an experience all of us passengers have, but it seems odd what I do: some people even look at me strangely, and I hide my drawing shyly. Is it weird to make a record of the moment? Is it weird to draw a line between two railway stations, just as the train does, in order to connect those stations, the dots.

Further: if it’s weird to make a record of the moment, then is my recording an act of resistance? Mark-making, line-making, resistance-making! Or just a connection to my experience, my observation of it, my becoming aware of the movements, the sounds, that surround me. The line, my surrounding, the thin line (of presence)! And now, what’s the space around the line? Go forward, line by line, read your surroundings, online, offline, and between those – lines. How can we even read between the lines – how can we understand -, if we don’t draw the lines in the first place!

To be continued.



Mine and Yours = mining + twinning

Mine and Yours

A mining and twinning project

In my ‘a psychogeography of where I grew up’ piece (on particulations.blogspot.co.uk), I remembered and rediscovered mines. All those mine that were closed down, most


noticeably in the 1980s, where I grew up beyond the outside (of Britain), and, well of course, in this country! So there’s a parallel history there, a mining history that’s mine and yours! By remembering this, I had, too, become a miner of my subconscious, and so developed this tracing story about mines, ‘twin mines’ across countries, three in this country and three in Germany.


The ‘three mines each’ that I am focusing on were/are on both sides, i.e. in both countries, the last mines of an era. All the others have been closed down, an era had been shut down, the end has come or the end is nigh, as in Germany where the two last mines will close down next year, in 2018. And so I write this around the end of an era: either just after or just before.


It’s funny, how things go further and deeper: first I became interested in symbolic archaeology, then geology, and now mining! There’s a clear thread here. Each stage overlaps, could be the same, and has a personal reference. I started using the word ‘archeology’ when looking in my flat for old documents, embarking on sorting through interesting ‘stuff’ I had collected in and from the past. Then I moved on to saying ‘geology’, to focus not necessarily on finding things, but on finding how the layering of documents of my past was organised in my flat (in West London)/room (afterwards, shared houses). With each step, the past, the ground with its underlying features, became more obvious. I called my collected items ‘self-extensions’. As the picture of me and my ‘landscape’ expanded, it all seemed more obviously psychogeographical as well, and so I moved from the symbolic to the ‘real’ (super symbolic?) and so rediscovered the mines that had existed around me. And as my surroundings, since I grew up, have changed, I grew closer to the mines, that would have existed around me here, too.

So from ‘here’ to ‘there’, and then back again, and across, and over again: I grew up on the edge of the area where mines existed in high concentration: namely the Ruhr area in Northrhine-Westphalia.  Here I was on the edge of an area, not yet the end of an era – though it was an edge of an era as well, as my growing-up fell into the 1970s and 1980s, when mines were shut down in large numbers, and the Miner’s Strike was on in Britain. I remember vividly, how news came in on a regular basis of mines shutting down somewhere near me. I felt it to be odd: I knew that when I grew up, I had to find a job, so when you have a job, and then they take your job away, isn’t that theft? Meanwhile, in Britain, the Miner’s strike was on: we all got to know what was going on back then, there was more public communication.


Remembering against the silence

So all these mines around me in my childhood now came back to me. I wanted to know what happened meanwhile. So I looked for those mines online, and found that they had all disappeared, the last of them in 2015, in Britain. In Germany, two mines are still standing, only just, until next year. In Britain, in 2015, only two years ago, the end of an era took place, but most of us didn’t seem to know about that end. There was a silence in the end: no strike, but a striking silence!

Who would have thought that an era can go missing with very little sound or voice! Published lists of mine closures reveal that throughout the 1990’s and 2000’s mines closed too, and all these years their closure has been much less public, much more hidden, marginal, apparently considered unimportant to the general public. What a general lack of concern this caused! The silence seemed to have been rising on both sides: the miners and the others, i.e. those of us doing other jobs. In Germany, things developed just the same, mine-closures didn’t make headlines anymore, even when nothing will be left in the end, which is nigh.

Miner’s strike while the iron was hot

When mines were closed in the 1980s, we knew about it: we knew more about each other! The iron was hot, the strike was important, miner’s welfare under threat, all eyes were on the cause.

Only ten years down the line, from the 1990s onwards the picture had totally changed: silence had taken over action and solidarity. Mines were closed, but emotionally, there’s not been closure – so it’s been one sort of closure against another. What’s the impact? Certainly much less communication has taken place since.

It’s also as if we expect others not to know about ourselves, or understand us. When I, a foreigner-in-residence (i.e. not just a visitor), mention the old mines and the strike, people in this country are surprised, if positively: as if they had not expected that I know. I then say that when I grew up, mines in Germany shut down as well, and how it stayed with me – and then, upon hearing it, that causes surprise once again! As if it is unexpected that our histories could be similar. But how could it not be, am I not industry’s child too? How different do we think we are, where we should really think that we are similar?

How the twinning comes in

There’s a twin history there. It’s more than just a twin history of course, as many other countries share this mining history – as well as its decline – too, and so, many of us are shaped by the same forces. For me, who has in-depth experience, though, of these two countries, Britain and Germany, I am attracted by the idea of mine-twinning, in order to highlight the similarities that I have most experience of.

My idea of mine-twinning is maybe a bit like town-twinning, and the application of this in some way an extension of Graeme Murrell’s psychogeographic town-twinning walk between Leeds –Huddersfield and Dortmund  – Unna (see “Over here over there” article in the Guardian, 15 Oct 2010). This was a ‘psychogeographic exploration of the territory between twin towns in West Yorkshire and the Ruhr Valley (ibid).

So I thought twinning is a great idea to mark the last mines “over here and over there”, and as a homage to the miners, with a view to the idea of ‘miners of all countries unite!’

Now my three-times-two list:

The last three mines closed in 2015 in Britain are:

Hatfield Colliery, near Doncaster in South Yorkshire;

Kellingley Colliery, near Knottingly in North Yorkshire, and

Thoresby Colliery near Mansfield in Nottinghamshire.

And the last three mines in Germany are:

Auguste-Victoria mine, near Marl (Ruhr Valley), closed in 2015;

Ostfeld mine, near Ibbenbueren (near Osnabrueck), to close 2018

Prosper-Haniel mine, near Bottrop (Ruhr Valley), to close in 2018

Now how to twin those three mines on ‘either side’? I first had gathered the three mines in Britain that all closed in 2015, and the two still-open mines in Germany, but I wanted to have a partner for each mine, i.e. I needed another mine in Germany, to have a twin for each of the three last British mines. I decided to look for the most recently closed mine in Germany, and found that it was the notably female- and victory-named Auguste-Victora mine, which incidentally shut down on the very same day as the last mine in Britain, Kellingley Colliery. These two mines both closed on the 18th December 2015 – that means the second anniversary of their closure is fast-approaching from now, the time of writing. So that’s the ideal mine-twin, with a shared end-day!

As for the other two, respectively four, who should be twinned with whom here? This is more arbitrary, I decided to go by familiarity of location: Hatfield Colliery is near a train line I am familiar with, and Ostfeld, the one near Osnabrueck, is on another train line I am familiar with. Familiarity for me here is, as usual, determined by train lines, but this is my practice of connecting and visiting locations, so trains play a major role for me – as they do too, for mines themselves, in order for the coal to be transported.

The third mine-pair then is Thoresby Colliery in Notts and Prosper-Haniel Colliery in the Ruhr Valley, another great pair.

‘Mining Day’

In order to start marking my twinning-idea, I decided to visit Hatfield Colliery in South Yorkshire, as it is within easy train-access, on the mainline to Doncaster, and then two more stops across. All the photos in this article are from this trip.


Coincidentally I am visiting the mine on a significant day: this day turned out to be the centenary of the Russian Revolution! The Russian Revolution is a hundred years old, and the mine I am visiting lived up to 99 years –but outlasted the Russian Revolution of course!

When taking my to Doncaster, I realised I was going with Hull Trains, i.e. this year’s City of Culture – a reminder of where I still have to go before the year runs out, as well as a hint that I am on a culture trail in itself, with my old mine-visit!


The train-line runs differently from what I am used to. Trains to Doncaster, as far as I am used to it from my trips to the north, go via Peterborough; this line, however, goes via Grantham! How odd, I am passing by the hometown of Thatcher, who antagonised the miners!

My next train, from Doncaster, interestingly leads to Hull as well, so today I could have gone to Hull twice!

As I get off at Hatfield and Stainforth – a station that previously was named ‘Stainforth and Hatfield’! – I see the mine from the platform on my left. There it was, in the not-too-far distance, surrounded by a vast area of land, just lying there now, empty.

As I leave for the main road, with one Hatfield on one side, and Stainforth on the other, I end up in Hatfield first, and stop in a café which advertises a Miner’s Welfare night with


fireworks. Then I go to the other side, the Stainforth side, which is actually closer to the colliery. I stop in a charity shop, then make my way to the mine-field! I walk up to the mine as close as is allowed, which is still some distance away, for there is some after-mine-life work still going on. To get here you walk beyond the village, pass what feels


like a threshold , the left-over rubble, and then come into mine-view. This is the recently, reluctantly abandoned sight of work!


Behind the pitheads I can see wind-turbines: great signs of alternative energy production in progress. The wind is significant here, a strange situation between past, present and future arises. The alternative energy production is a good sign, but what happened to the workers of the mine? It’s about honouring the era, the work, the workers, the labour, the part(y) of industrialisation. It can mean alienation as well, but there has to a choice, and there has to be respect, and mutual awareness.

Going back from the mine-field to the village I notice an N.U.M memorial, to an outstanding activist and supporter of miner’s welfare during the strike, and then to the great Strike itself. It’s a (striking) irony that in the year of the 30th anniversary of that great Strike, mining ended altogether in this country. An end which appears to have become a minor event, whereas it really is of major significance!


I wonder how Hatfield and Stainforth still yearns for its heart that stopped beating not long ago: the ending is still fresh, and a shop’s Halloween ghost becomes a symbol for the ghost of the recent past, the fresh absence encountered.

Back in Doncaster, arriving again at the station with its massive ‘hinterland’ – i.e. trains parked on spare lines, resting -, this felt like the ideal ‘intermediate’ location between the mining village on the one hand, and London on the other. I couldn’t have gone straight back to London now, there was too much of this area’s history in the air, to just leave it behind so soon and sudden. The Doncaster Time Line, which I discovered engraved on a street in the city centre, tells of the mining history too, and so does the excellent poet’s corner in the shopping centre, where poems have been printed on the walls.


Our mutual mines

I think I understood silence here, once again and again from another angle: the shame that it might conceal, and the indifference that it might regret. How can society at large be indifferent to this, and what could the response be but a ‘silence of the oppressed’. Or it might be seen as a virtue to be silent, or hoped to be considered a privilege Is there shame in talking? If so, opportunities to remember get lost, and it becomes ever more difficult for us to meet in spirit. I may have understood a dimension of silence here, but silence will not help us to understand one another, or get to know each other. We may not meet, and we may not know that our (labour) histories have met already.

Or is to pretend we don’t know one another, is knowing (the ‘other’, considered) an intrusion? However remember, united we stand, divided we are isolated. This is a cultural translation too, but then miners too have been a multicultural bunch, across countries and within countries.

Therefore, for our mutual understanding and conversation, I have twinned these last mines in these two countries, here and there.

To be continued – this is only part one (of this project).


Growing (up) psychogeography

Growing (up) psychogeography – maps and links

Our practices reveal ourselves: now the maps that I drew as a child make sense to me. It

was the ‘early psychogeographer’ in me!  I mean some kind of disposition that not only drew me to maps, but that drew me to draw maps! To make maps on my own, to invent places!

I thought it was a weird practice even as a child. My brother did it as well but he was older and he was a boy, and I thought ‘which other girl would do something that sounds as boring as drawing maps…’ It usually went like that: I made an outline of an island, and on the island I would draw one or two or maybe three little towns, or villages. The island-outlines came from our standard holidays as children on the islands off the Frisian coast in Germany: so it had their shape as a model, blueprint, prototype. I’ll show photos of my childhood maps once I can find them!

Map, shape, cognition, geometry

On being curious whether drawing maps as a child is an awkward activity – or whether it is normal somehow, I found out that the activity enhances spatial awareness! Drawing, i.e. making maps has a positive effect on enhancing lateral thinking, so there’s something cognitive going on in the process! This explains perhaps my thought process, and also why, a few years later at school, I had a strong interest in geometry. In some respects I found maths really boring, but I took to geometry like a duck to water. All those shapes with all those names!

In view of this, psychogeography, which I came across a very long time later than maps, unsurprisingly turned out to be the perfect subject-discovery for me – and am ‘embedded one’ at that, as I sort of automatically wrote myself into it. My practices, my interests, now were not awkward anymore, or the other way round, being awkward was a good thing.

When I say I wrote myself into psychogeography, I mean the sort of poetry and prose that I write. My first poetry award, in 2008, was by Urban Design, and now, just like with the maps before, it makes sense why such an organisation would give me an award: it was my place-writing, the walking plus the wording in the literature. For example my trip to the enticingly named peninsula Hoo!: wanderingwords.org.uk/author/ursulaa, or, another example some years earlier, my poetry-contribution to a booklet on the river Brent (to be excavated…)

My second poetry award was a poem written in 2013 (though sent in this year), and again it’s a place-poem (the third award was on Sappho in Letchworth Garden City, tbs). Here it is:

Then came the 4th World Congress in Psychogeography, which is documented in Tim Waters’ excellent blog here, and has links to my two blog posts about it as well: thinkwhere.wordpress.com (see under fourth picture).

Then I was thrilled that top psychogeographer Tina Richardson invited me to write a guest post on her excellent blog. I decided to write a piece where I kind of introduce myself, hence ‘a psychogeography of where I grew up (how forms and shapes have formed and shaped me): particulations.blogspot.co.uk

And from there developed a ‘mining project’ which I’ll write more about, and also the idea of making psychogeographs! I wanted to honour the ‘graph’ part of geography, and then take it literally, which reveals its closeness to ‘mapping’, once again, and so comes back to itself. My second psychogeograph is the title picture of this post, and my first one is here below.

The dérive and questions of structure

There’s another big thing in psychogeography, apart from maps, and that is the dérive! This is another perfect practice for me! Having a dislike for some forms of repetition and structures, I found that the dérive also functions as stress relief for me. I have to do it frequently, in order to escape, or to side-line, the set structures which I am supposed to follow, and which do not allow enough of my own expression. Whenever I have the opportunity to do my own – literally! – derivations from the prescribed pathways, I feel I am breathing, flowing, in my element! So for me the dérive is the perfect answer to my needs.

It’s not that I seek to ‘deconstruct’ all structures – there are different types: structures that are hierarchies have to be abolished, in favour of equality – whereas with other types of structures I simply want to be able to make my own ones, to add to the existing ones and therefore enhance possibilities, choices and ideas.

In daily life: dots and lines

My daily life is quite dérive-friendly: I have to work at a different venue almost every day, and my weekly and monthly structures are also usually entirely different from one another. There is little repetition, which I like.

Yet I always seek to extend this freedom to the max! It seems I have a need to constantly find unknown and unexpected things, places, views, ideas – and different ways of connecting places: places being dots and lines the connections I make between them!

If I don’t do have enough opportunity to have to reach different places, or the same places in a different order, I feel either bored or a bit strangled/stressed. Walking down a road and observing thrills me, such as looking at the arrangement of autumn leaves on road, pavement or yellow line, seeing signs, objects, notices – indeed: to notice! Finding flowers growing through gaps in the pavement, looking at cloud-formations in the sky, and the ever-changing light- and shadow patterns that sunshine produces. So there are things to see on the ground, and things to see in the sky!

More is on the way, so this is growing it further and further!