Ada Maricia Patterson
Gentle stranger, I hope this email finds you well is a collection of letters, written by artists around the world. Each artist explores care in some aspect of their work, and each letter is written in response to the previous one. These letters, which may take the form of (creative) writing, sound or visual essays, will be published weekly, from June 1st onwards. With these letters, we invite you to think with us about new ways of thinking about and through care, in these changing times.
This letter by Ada Maricia Patterson, responds to Sophie Fetokaki’s, which you can read here.
1
*deep breath*
To whom the sign is carried, and
To whom the sign is a breath often risked,
I hope these words can be worth your breath.
I'm writing you
out of breath
but with some words left to spare
to drown
out some of the noise.
Yes, I wanted to talk to you about breathing and drowning. I wanted to ask you: Who is allowed to breathe in this world? Given that he "was not allowed to breathe".
"When breath becomes an object of attention, no longer unremarked on, no longer taken for granted, no longer an uninspected given, anxiety is also in the air."[1]
No, breath is not a given. My chest seizes up when I start to listen to my own breath--as if I own it--when I get conscious of its rhythm--it's like realising there's always been music moving and you've always been grooving and suddenly you're out of time--out of breath, and you try to catch up again--in and out of rhythm, breath--an underground tempo that marks you for life, lose your step you could lose your breath, step out of time, out of line, marked for death.
So no, it's not no given. I did see people breath get take 'way, it did breath-taking
but yeah, people--
as
it does don't only be men, it does don't only be boys who breath get take 'way--
it does be women, it does be queers, the people they does be trans, it does be children,
it does be it does be it does be it does be it does be
but no, don't get it twist up,
all of them does be Black.
*deep breath*
So, this is why I need to ask: Who is allowed to breathe in this world?
"It
It
It
It is not
It
It
It
It is not
It is not
It is not enough
It is not enough to"[2]
ask of the conditions
that give rise to such a question.
We are painfully already aware.
But what could it mean to transmute them? What would that look like?
Can drowning do the work of baptism?
And how might we be breath-taking in ways that give us back our breathing room?
2
Pan is a melodic percussion instrument--that is to say it is an instrument that produces different pitches when struck in different places--that is to say it is an instrument of echoes, reverberations, recoils and consequences after making contact, after making an impact--that is to say it is an instrument of repercussions
so, to play pan, is to make repercussions
to make repercussions heard
When you roll a note in pan--
wrists cuffed invisibly, struggling against it
starting a fire in your hands--a repercussion--
each gripping kindling
burning rubber
drawing screams
from the timber
from the timbre--
and they last as long as you
last as long as your hands
last as long as your breath
lasts
breath lasts
breath lost
breathless
as long as the note
lasts
the note lasts
the notes lost
the noteless
as long as a
last breath
Let go the note
and it still breathing
brea-thing
bea-ting
blea-ting
blee-ding
on your neck--felt more than heard
but press down the note
o-press down the note
down the notes
drown the notes
drown note's throat
throa-ting--throw ting, drown it, note it
drow-ning no-ting throa-ting --no ting singing no more
noting no more
no ting no more
noting no ting no more
no ting felt no ting heard no more
noting no more
not no faded note, no more--effaced
a face
a scream cut at the bloody root--
a face no more
a scream cut from the gumming mouth
not no ringing throating,
not no ringing throat ting--a wringed throat
noting a wringing throat, felt more than heard
on our neck, at the back of our throat
take note
listen
for the repercussions
pan is an instrument of repercussions--that is to say it is an instrument of striking back
so play pan
strike back
and be heard
3
"George was not allowed to breathe"
I heard a repercussion in what you said, Sis.
You struck back and a different pitch was heard, unique to where you stood.
In our little islands, as you know, to drown is to be denied breath.
And to drown in our little islands is an image whose clarity does not spare us a little breathing room.
Another George (Lamming) reminds me of a rumour that
"The sea, many thought, was God's reminder of his power."[1]
It may very well be a reminder of power, but I wouldn't betray my breath by calling those men in suits, "God".
A pig that controls the weather is still just a pig.
So when he floods our seas and perverts our hurricanes, queers them in his image, queers us in the image he hopes for us---effaced and drowned
when he strangles the tide to rise
pockets plots of sand on each embarrassing visit
and seizes not only breath but our ventilators too
we are reminded of power and our place in his world:
underwater, under heel
under slaughter, under Hell
I've heard that
in Abaco,
they won't be able to find all the bodies Dorian disappeared.
I don't need to imagine failed lungs, last breaths or drowned bodies,
the sea is enough of a reminder.
I don't need to imagine bodies ground to nothing but salt in the ocean's mortar,
the beach is enough of a reminder.
I don't need to imagine the spoken words or dialects of hurricanes,
the feeling is enough of a reminder.
I don't need to know the names of pigs who control the weather,
I just need an oven big enough to roast a god.
Let his last breath be a squeal.
[1] This is lifted from George Lamming’s first novel, In the Castle of My Skin (1953).
4
I can hear repercussions when Pat Parker says,
"Don't let the fascists speak
[...]
My mind remembers and my innards churn
conjure images"[1]
of stone men, bronze men
drowned in black bodies of water
effigies for slavers and other kinds of trash
deposed, condemned to serve
as criminal examples
and budding coral reefs
conjure images
of white women and other kinds of apologists
lecturing
"He should be put in a museum."
"We mustn't forget our history."
always lectured
by the same apologists who always
are the last
to remember
conjure images
of drowned men
slavers, decorated pigs and other kinds of trash
buried in
"coral typically live in compact colonies of many identical individual polyps."
--Where have I heard that before?--
"Fragmentation involves individuals broken from the colony during storms or other disruptions."
--Break him from the colony, disrupt his message and drown him in the sea--
"The separated individuals can start new colonies."
Let the coral devour him
he always wanted a colony
conjure images
of beautiful survivals
black women
queers and other kinds of fresh air
taking breaths, taking names, taking
glamorous sittings
in the cushion of wreckage
of worlds once built for drowning
of worlds not made for living--
giving room to breathe
for the short of breath
giving names to each other
written in fire
taking back and giving forward
striking back and being heard
Listen
for the repercussions
conjure images
of drowned men
slavers, disaster capitalists and other kinds of trash
waterlogged voices
can't breach the currents
can't breathe, the currents
drowning out the noise
Don't let them speak
a scream cut at the bloody root--
effaced
pedestal emptied of cane trash
a face
beheaded and chucked in the wharf
in the careenage
in the river
in the sea
in the Atlantic
in the water--
each body will remember, each is a museum
repatriate the breath
he stole from us
*deep breath*
In the hope that we'll hear more from each other,
in the hope that the sign carried is a prophecy and
in the hope against hope,
Ada.
Ada Maricia Patterson (Bridgetown, 1994) is a visual artist and writer based between Barbados, London and Rotterdam.
You can find more of Ada’s work here.
Click here for Sophie Fetokaki’s letter, which came before, and here for Katharina Joy Book’s letter (which will be published on June 22nd).
Many thanks to Manon Beury, Tudor Etchells, Emily Medd, James Medd and Melanie Healy, Rapolas Rucinskas and all those who preferred to remain anonymous, whose contributions helped make this project possible.
