You find yourself by a body of water. Walk along the shore. Notice how every grain of sand is an archive in and of itself. There is something waiting for you here – a gift from the ancestral seas. What do you find? What do you remember? Build a bridge between worlds and return to tell us your story. 

When we create things, we are writing letters to our future selves and ecosystems; realizing the archival potential in text, sound, video, material, and performance. We engage in art-making as if to say: this is how we survived. This is how we wove meaning in the struggle. These transmissions track the patterns of our joy and give space to our grief. These transmissions document the stories we told, the tools we sought out, the secret languages that we spoke, and the underground networks and mythologies that we formed in the name of survival. 

The mercurial nature of things – from the pandemic to the proliferating visible and invisible apocalypses of our time – has reinforced the importance of framing art as self-preservation. When we tell our stories, we are placing ourselves at the centre. We are resisting systems that were never designed to protect those living in the margins. We shift culture with our truths, shatter the illusion and refuse to simplify our narratives for the market. Powerful and unpinnable, our narratives are not rooted in the pursuit of destination – the journey is everything. 

The artist mirrors the witness: both subjects face the unknown, their dreams of the future spiral up into the ether. The world that we collectively hope for is inevitable. It is embodied through our communities and how we show up for one another. It is woven into practices of reciprocity and understanding. 

As witnesses, it is in our interest to surrender to the possibility of transformation. When the heart is open, invitations rise to the surface: be present. Look around you. Turn your cheek towards the sweltering sun. Build something with friends. Break bread with the ones you love. Exchange recipes for the revolution. Sow seeds in the wreckage. Acknowledge your neighbours. Give thanks to the trees. Harness your attention. Protect one another. Don’t forget to dance. 

June Jordan writes: “We are the ones we have been waiting for.” Remember this. Your imagination, precious and expansive, is poison to the machine. 

by Jessica Félicité Kasiama