They Call Us The Screamers: TULCA Festival of Visual Arts 2017 by TULCA Festival of Visual Arts

The

Screamers

They Call Us The Screamers

They Call Us The Screamers Matt Packer

Scream I Sue Rainsford

Scream II Sue Rainsford

Scream III Sue Rainsford

Artist Pages with text by Matt Packer

Colophon

TULCA Festival of Visual Arts, Galway, Ireland 3 November â&#x20AC;&#x201C; 19 November 2017 2

They Call Us The Screamers Matt Packer They Call Us The Screamers is the exhibition title of the 15th edition of TULCA Festival of Visual Arts. It features artworks by Irish and international artists that are presented across six venues in Galway city: Galway Arts Centre, 126 Artists-Run Gallery, Nun's Island Theatre, Connacht Tribune Print Works, Barnacles Hostel, and University Hospital Galway. The exhibition uses a controversial therapy commune in 1970s Ireland as a thematic compass. Within the exhibition are artworks that are variously orientated to ideas that are held together by this historical episode. They include ideas of psychotherapy and selfhood; withdrawal and refusal; alternative models of community and family; capitalism and neurosis; esotericism and Celtic spirits; rebirth and self-enlightenment; sexual politics and society; voice and primal language; anti-modernism and future culture. In some cases, there are artworks in the exhibition that refer directly to aspects of the commune itself. The exhibition takes its title from a book written by Jenny James, published by Caliban Books in 1980. The book is an account of Atlantis, the self-declared ‘radical primal therapy commune’ that she established a few years earlier in the village of Burtonport, and later on the nearby island of Inishfree, County Donegal. The book describes James’ arrival in Ireland and the narrative events that led to the purchase of an old hotel that would become Atlantis House – the proxy headquarters for James’ particular brand (or non-brand) of therapy and the collective home to a tribe of friends, family, and therapy seekers. 4

The core principles of Atlantis were to live as self-sufficiently and robustly as possible, to be exposed to the natural forces of the environment and face up to the human vulnerabilities and instinctual drives that had been so far lost and buried under layers of modern social adjustment. The practice of self-development through Primal Therapy – a form of psychotherapy that encouraged the emotional expression of repressed pain and deep trauma – would be one part of a larger project to reconcile all of this. The community of Atlantis would grow their own food and self-educate their children. They would run naked in the garden. They would do without health services where possible. They would live without TV and commercial entertainment. They would turn the tide on Western civilisation that seemed bent on its own destruction.

seek out the pain locked deep in the memory of his patients’ bodies, and then channel this pain through emotional and vocal expression, previously blocked by social habits, language and intellect. The exercise of screaming became a recognisable (and often caricatured) aspect of Janov’s Primal Therapy, to the extent that Scream Clubs were established in many universities across the US during the early 1970s. The popular success and amateur appropriation of Primal Therapy caused Janov to distance himself from these kinds of unendorsed screaming activities. In an interview with the Sunday World in 1976 Janov denounced Atlantis in particular, saying: ‘There are some 400 cranks throughout the world misusing my name and misusing Primal Therapy. I have never heard of these people in Burtonport’. The screams overheard at Atlantis House might well have been the sounds of unlocked pain and individual expression, but they were also the distant echoes of a particularly Californian idea that became part of the broader psychological zeitgeist of the 1970s.

Among other things, the book is a response to the controversies and scandals that embroiled the commune during their first years in Ireland. There were accusations of cultish behaviour, anti-homosexuality, kidnapping, and physical abuse – many of which are difficult to untangle from the socially conservative context of rural Ireland in the 1970s. The community of Atlantis was subject to intimidation, IRA bomb threats, calls in the Daíl to have them deported. They were nicknamed ‘The Screamers’ in a 1976 Sunday World article, following local reports of maniacal screaming coming from Atlantis House late into the night.

The arrival of Atlantis in Ireland was also in line with an increasingly bleak sense of political possibility which had everything to do with this new psyche. Franco Berardi describes the 1970s as a watershed in the perception of the future as it turned from ‘a horizon of possibility’ into a ‘new horizon of exhaustion’; a decade that saw its future through the dark lens of an imminent nuclear war, a near-global recession, and a weakening belief in the modernity that had guided the long period of post-war prosperity. In an Irish context, the 1970s introduced specific opportunities and problems of its own, with membership of the European Union and escalating violence in the North of Ireland among other things that contributed mixed fortunes to a country that was poor and unevenly developed by modern Western standards.

The Primal Therapy that was practiced at Atlantis was not the qualified form of Primal Therapy that Dr Arthur Janov was trying to promote through his Primal Institute in California, but it did follow the same basic idea: that our ordinary lives are detrimentally effected by the patterns of modern upbringing. In his publication The Primal Scream (1970), Janov cited the agony of a clinical birth and a childhood made miserable by the behavioural controls of parents and other adult authority figures as some of the general traumas that linger into our adulthood and develop as a form of neurosis. Janov’s book served as a primer for his therapy services, where he would

As far as Atlantis was concerned, Ireland was a place that offered an exception to an exhausted future. It was a land of ancient mysticism and folkloric enchantments, Sheela na Gig and Tír na nÓg – all of 6

which reflected the narrative of Atlantis in seeking to reconnect to a pre-modern world. In an interview published in Atlantis Is – another in a series of books published by Caliban books on the topic of Atlantis – Jenny James describes Ireland as ‘one of the last parts of Europe to give up the old ways and sell out to the fast buzz …’ while lamenting the changes that were already underway. She describes how the Irish people were ‘moving the opposite way’ from Atlantis, ‘away from their islands, their land, their traditions of self-entertainment, their companionship and communality’, with the bitter irony that the Atlanteans were being mocked as ‘hippies’ for trying to restore these same values and ‘live in their old ways’. It was perhaps only a matter of time before Ireland would cease to be a place of exception, and more like everywhere else in determining its future. In 1988, after more than ten years spent in Burtonport and the nearby island of Inishfree, coinciding with broader cultural and political changes in the country, members of the Atlantis community departed for Colombia in a refurbished boat. They Call Us The Screamers is an exhibition that uses the story of Atlantis in Ireland to give way to a broader framework of practice-related ideas that develop from the counter-cultural psyche of the 1970s; a story that cuts across the axis of the private and public body and Western cultural consciousness. From here perhaps we can begin to imagine an alternative future for self and society in today's perspective.

They Call Us The Screamers by Jenny James Caliban Books, 1980

Scream I Sue Rainsford

Inside the brain, there is a sound-range set aside especially for the scream; a range shared by house and car alarms. Its particular vibratory energy comes from its ‘roughness’, meaning the speed with which it becomes shrill and piercing – simply loud. At its quick pace it moves along the auditory canal, over and through the ossicles and into the shell-shaped cochlea. Here, it stirs the cells and activates the brain’s fear circuitry. A human scream typically has a modulation rate between a range of 30 and 150 hertz. The wider the mouth, the higher the scream. Vocality devoid of language has always been a sign of unfettered intensity, of experience determined to overspill the body’s borders. The scream, the shriek, shout: these are all shortcuts that override speech to permit the body utter what it knows. 10

History and myth have been mostly concerned with the female body overriding speech in this way.

Aischrologia: the speaking of ugly things. A practice permitted once ‘the ugly’ can still be in some way channelled into narrative or exegesis.

In ‘The Gender of Sound’, Anne Carson writes of the ololyga: a feminine ritual shout performed in ancient Greece, it ‘represents a cry of either intense pleasure or intense pain’ and signifies nothing other than its own sound. She writes also that to ‘utter such cries is a specialised female function’. When the female body screams, shrieks, or shouts, it signals at best an imminent loss of control, at worst death: the Sirens affixed with beaks and wings, whose song draws men to a watery death, the Banshee with her mouth ever widening to let spill her shriek, the keening performed by Irish women, that funereal lament that is an acoustic manifestation of grief – even the vixen screams when she’s seeking a mate.

So long as the intent is that the individual function better within society. Once some contribution has been made. This is where the primal scream differs. In screaming, the screamer purges the insidious hurt and psychic damage inflicted during their childhood, and any increase in functionality is certainly not for the benefit of the society that birthed those traumas (and from which they are now being deprogrammed).

The Screamers’ Atlantis was founded by a woman, and media coverage at the time often mentioned the commune’s female members abandoning their roles of housekeeping and child rearing (further proof that when expression foregoes language, boundaries are transgressed). Language, after all, is reason, and any utterance that occurs without it is disruptive and uncouth, feminine and bestial.

If the primal scream signals anything outside of itself, it signals refusal. For the sound of the primal scream, you might substitute a long plume of smoke – a snake of ozone. A thread of noxious ether. It cannot be re-assimilated. Its occurrence sees it meaning fulfilled. An apotropaic utterance: one that protects against evil influence.

When such utterances occur, they are appropriated. The purging body undergoes its mechanisms as entirely necessary; family members of certain deceased IRA hunger strikers insisted the pathologist’s report be stricken of the term ‘voluntary’, and the cause of death read simply as ‘starvation’. Such evacuative methods appal the onlooker in the same way as vomit: something has escaped the body to speak an interior disturbance. This offensive emergence is, as Carson tells us, why ‘female festivals in which ritual cries were heard <were> relegated to suburban areas like the mountain, the beach or the rooftops…’ Here, ‘women could disport themselves without contaminating the ear or civic space of men.’

Sigmund Freud and Jeff Breuer, for instance, permitted their hysterics make all manner of sound. Their ‘talking cure’ sanitised the unmediated breach between inside and outside; the hysteric’s nonsense was eventually brought within the vernacular of the case study, which saw meaning ultimately uncovered or restored. The symbolic scream also has a complex relationship to sanitising female expression. Referring to the prolonged, frenzied and tenuous state that resulted in the manuscript of Ariel (as well as the poet’s suicide) Kate Zambreno writes of Sylvia Plath ‘screaming was her alchemy, her rebirth.’ On the photography of Francesca Woodman, Isabella Pedicini considers the scream as ‘the body’s great moment of reflection’.

Quarantine still seems to be the price of allowing the body’s private contaminants to become extraneous. Trends of relegation and fears of 12

contamination have certainly endured; our contemporary screamers travel to remote places to conduct their self therapy, but it seems they are never far away enough from civilised bodies. Even if it goes unheard, the fact of the primal screamâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s occurrence remains offensive: we should not voluntarily make sounds other bodies, in times of duress, cannot help but make we should not cause displeasure in the ears of others we should not seek solace by mimicking madness. Whatever we might expect of the untethered body, we do not expect it to restore equilibrium. Rather, we expect it to induce disorder, and to introduce information for which we have no measure.

Atlantis House, circa 1977 ÂŠ Pat Langan / The Irish Times

Scream II Sue Rainsford

what part

I feel to be

any air at all

especially

now seems

a knot

looks to me rivulet unrest

my body like a drought

in my throat a knot my throat flow free hurt when I call out for once-glass noise I make

traced a body-sized space and this was is only

dry

a great melting for me told a knife is but part of you 16

an urgent

mouth

put all this age on me

make suffer

solid

my old voice

in any case

I curl velvet black already my tongue is

the only thing left behind

Scream III Sue Rainsford

I spent the walk thinking about things I might’ve said; You thought you were all dry inside, but this isn’t so. Envy daggering around in my chest while I watched her go into the house. It made me want to live my first time over. That first release of shoulders sliding like warmed butter down the back. It’ll move through you like a river and soften the soil there. Our first weeks spent realising where we were blocked, where our blockages were pulsing and what it would take to see them secreted. I feel lonesome for the time you spent kneading and massaging whatever muscle or organ had that day taken up the hurt. Those weeks before, suddenly, I was looking down at myself and realising all the space I had inside. ‘I’ve a bell swinging in my chest’, I said to you, and quickly you were laughing. ‘I’ve a ballroom run down each leg.’

I saw her from the middle of the lawn. I was standing on the lush grass there, thinking how it’s grown coarser than the grass near the house and so makes a different underfoot sound. Thinking that the tomato vines are this year especially strong, that almost all the vegetables have come up without any blight. I was thinking you’ve been gone ten days, and then I saw her standing passive and hush on the other side of the fence.

This was how I spent the rest of yesterday: wistful.

Anytime another arrives, I think: How many are left of them now? How many yet to come?

Last night: another dream of women with beaks for mouths, and when I woke up the birds seemed to be singing the wrong kind of birdsong. Screech panic tune. Plucked feather song.

She had a hand on the gate and when I opened it she forgot to let go, and came toward me with a lurch so that we were suddenly close. The skin around her eyes had shrivelled into itself like an old balloon.

What did the birds sound like before? The birds with their song and the sea lions with their bark and the foxes with their scream. Not that I think of it now. That less bright time. Thick with smog time. Even if I try to I can hardly recall it. I lean my memory toward it and there’s only a hushhaze, which of course is because we weren’t quite awake then – not quite alive.

The first hurt makes a hole in you and for the rest of your life more hurts come to widen it. I led her back to the main house and she walked stiff and strange beside me. It was midday and walking through the tight crowds felt sinewy. We might have spoken, but they’d have been wasted words. The buzz of everyone moving was too loud and besides, she was very frightened. Still, when they come, they are always so frightened.

We were mute-mouth. Creased shut eyes. I suppose you and I are just the right age to have seen things change but still retain a trace of how they were. Something always strained, 20

something always curdling. I was watching the children yesterday and thinking we’ve become so mindful – have seeded them with so little hurt – soon we’ll have little bodies born into hush. It’s being weaned out of us all the time. Imagine: bodies unhaunted by things they shouldn’t have done, shouldn’t have said. Never waking up with that regretful feeling on the tongue.

Since you’ve gone I wake up outside, sometimes. I think I follow the sound of the foxes. I think, lately, there just isn’t enough for me here at the house. No matter how long and full the sessions something lingers unexpressed. When I wake up outside it’s dark I already have my hand around my throat, am already feeling the tremor strong in my palm. Am already deep in the sound and feeling it makes in me; the sharpness in the ear, the tingle gone up through the cheeks and buzzing behind the eyes. The cheeks wrinkling backward as they peel back from the teeth, the neck curled and the chest rising, the head forgetting itself as a weight and rolling, rolling.

We’ve simply removed ourselves from forces that seek to perforate and puncture. The days are getting shorter again and everyone is remembering how to behave with the early dark. What needs to be done by when, what it’s like to spend more time inside. It makes a thick, heavy feeling in me to see these changes happening without you, and after today’s session I lay down under my window and listened to the wind whistling around the frame. I turned my face toward the floor while my eyes made salt-rich water. While my shoulders drew close, drew apart. Someone creaking down the hall. The rattle of pipes in the walls as they pump the water, seawater grey.

I wonder if you miss it, where you are. I don’t like to imagine that you don’t, or that you’ve found another way.

Telling you where your heart belongs. Where your stomach belongs. Where is it that your body can be whole? These last few weeks you had a little tear, a thin slice like a paper cut, at the side of your mouth. Like the start of a smile, but just on that one side. ‘Something repeating on me’, you said. ‘Something I can’t quite shake. Something my skin is trying to hide.’ Let your body express itself or you’ll fall, tumble, trip. And you kept asking if I remembered my first tear, my torn throat and the taste that reminded me of meat. How I kept trying to spit away the taste of meat. Energy, undischarged, spoils. 22

Artist

Overgrown bathing pool at the former Atlantis House, 2016. Photograph by Matt Packer

Pages

Connacht Tribune Print Works / Galway Arts Centre

Nun’s Island Theatre / Connacht Tribune Print Works / Galway Arts Centre

Documentation of a 3 hour performance of vocal exercises, ﬁlmed by Josef Kramholler at the Stockwell Studio, London + A series of collaged faces to be looked at and looked through

An outdoor kite-like structure designed for future winds + Paintings that are like the hurried diagrams of an imaginary new world order

Fabienne Audeoud Living and working in Paris (FR). Recent exhibitions include: No To Crucifixions, Karst (UK); Le Bien, La Salle de bains (FR); Slash Second, Sharjah Art Foundation (UAE)

Sam Basu / Liz Murray Living and working in Treignac (FR). Recent exhibitions include: XenoClassic, Rib (NL), Disappearing Acts, Lofoten International Art Festival (NO)

Practice, 1997

Becoming Manifold, 2016–2017

Untitled (faces on transparent taffetas), 2016

Becoming Unravelling, 2017

Connacht Tribune Print Works

Assemblies of common materials and domestic objects, sexually reorientated through a path of personal history and queer future fantasy

An environment that recreates the optimal conditions for harnessing â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Orgone Energyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;, the esoteric energy advocated by psychoanalyst Wilhelm Reich in the 1930s

Kian Benson Bailes Living and working in Sligo (IE). Recent exhibitions include: The Present is not Enough-Part 1, CCA Derry-Londonderry (IE/UK)

David Beattie Living and working in Dublin (IE). Recent exhibitions include: A quarter turn to face the light, Centre for Contemporary Art Derry-Londonderry (IE/UK); Bring in the Noise, Limerick City Gallery of Art / Ormston House (IE)

Ritual of oak and mistletoe, An urban phenomenon, bareback or nothing, no fats / no femmes, Clobber verses, all 2017

Propositional Things, 2016

Connacht Tribune Print Works

A prototype costume for a new community, incorporating elements of the facade decoration of Atlantis House circa 1977

An arrangement of handmade objects that have been shaped and co-designed with electrotherapy massage tools

Oisin Byrne Living and working in London (UK). Recent exhibitions include: On Being Named, Cecilia Brunson Projects (UK); Glue, Grolle Pass Projects (DE), The Temptation of AA Bronson, Witte de With (NL) Then Yourself, 2017

CiarĂĄn Ă&#x201C; Dochartaigh Living and working in London (UK). Recent exhibitions include: Kisses Sweeter Than Wine, Treignac Projet (FR); Disappearing Acts, Lofoten International Art Festival (NO) 30

Druid Love Triangle, 2017

Galway Arts Centre

Barnacles Hostel

A ﬁlm charting the growth patterns of solitude

A video of political campaigners undergoing a primal therapy workshop during the time of the ‘Brexit’ referendum and US election in 2016

Vicky Langan and Maximilian Le Cain Living and working in Cork (IE). Recent exhibitions and screenings include: Centre Culturel Irlandais (FR); Luminous Void, Triskel Project Space (IE); Tangled and Far, Microscope Gallery (US)

Liz Magic Laser Living and working in New York (US). Recent exhibitions include: Discours primal, CAC Brétigny (FR); Primal Speech, Jupiter Artland (UK); Identification Please, Kunstverein Göttingen (DE)

Inside, 2017

Primal Speech, 2016

Connacht Tribune Print Works

A sculptural work with audio sound track that proposes neural re-programming for inter-species self-development

A landscape of memory explored through photographic images and lumen prints made with turf, from the island of Inishfree, County Donegal

McGibbon Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Lynn (Siobhan McGibbon and Maeve Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Lynn) Living and working in Galway (IE) and Belfast (IE/UK). Recent exhibitions include: In Case of Emergency, Science Gallery (IE); The Future is Already Here, Galway City Museum (IE); Why is it Always December?, The Millennium Court Arts Centre (IE/UK)

Yvette Monahan Living and working in Dublin (IE). Recent exhibitions include: The thousand year old boy, PhotoLondon (UK); The time of dreaming the world awake, Copper House Gallery (IE); Pallas Periodical #3, Pallas Projects (IE)

Xenophon: Re-Birth and Re-Verse, 2017

Beyond the Ninth Wave, 2017

University Hospital Galway

Nun’s Island Theatre

An instruction to scream

An audio-visual installation that uses the primal noise of the past, present and imagined future, to form the basis of a new mode of communication

Yoko Ono Living and working in New York (US). Recent exhibitions include: Dream Come True, Museo de Arte Latinoamericano de Buenos Aires (AR); The Riverbed, Galerie Lelong & Co / Andrea Rosen (US); Yoko Ono: One Woman Show, 1960–1971, Museum of Modern Art (US) Voice Piece for Soprano, 1961

Plastique Fantastique Living and working in the UK. Recent exhibitions include: The Shonky, The MAC (IE/UK); Bi SON Oil MAN, IMT (UK); Lindsey Bull and Plastique Fantastique, Castlefield Gallery (UK) 36

Futurespast Sound Catcher Repeater, 2017

126 Artist Run Gallery

Galway Arts Centre

A temple of dark self reﬂection

A ﬁlm portrait of Atlantis, originally commissioned by the RTÉ television network as part of a (subsequently abandoned) TV series on alternative lifestyles

Richard Profﬁtt Living and working in Dublin (IE). Recent exhibitions include: Written In Water, Shone In Stone, Kevin Kavanagh (IE); Hold The Candle To Your Eye/Light The Criss-Cross On Your Chest, Sirius Arts Centre (IE); A Modern Panarion, Dublin City Gallery The Hugh Lane (IE) The Shortcut: Don't Follow The Black Dog, 2017

Bob Quinn Living and working in Galway (IE). Recent exhibitions and screenings include: Alternative Communities, Irish Film Institute (IE); Dublin International Film Festival (IE); Clare Island Film Festival (IE); Centre Culturel Irlandais (FR) The Family, 1979 38

Connacht Tribune Print Works

Copper bowls spun in collaboration with young people diagnosed with elective mutism, presented with music by Meredith Monk

An installation that features a cast of characters occupied with rituals and community development on an isolated peninsula in Denmark

Florian Roithmayr Living and working in Wysing and Reading (UK). Recent exhibitions include: ir re par sur, Bloomberg Space (UK); with, and, or, without, Camden Arts Centre (UK); SERVICE, MOT International (BE); Matter of Engagement, Site Gallery (UK)

Kaspar Oppen Samuelsen and Marie-Louise Vittrup Anderson Living and working in Copenhagan (DK). Recent exhibitions include: Ants play man to sleep in soft concerts, Treignac Projet (FR), Bendixen Contemporary Art (DK), The [weit], NLH space (DK)

, 2017 with Meredith Monk Dolmen Music, 1981

The Liquid Crystal Sheep feat. Peninsula Extras, 2017

Galway Arts Centre

Colophon Author / Editor Matt Packer is a curator, writer, and Director of EVA International – Ireland’s Biennial of Contemporary Art. Previous roles include Director of CCA Derry-Londonderry (2014-2017) and Curator of Disappearing Acts / LIAF, Svolvær (2015)

Paintings, ceramics, and pool inﬂatables that draw from a conversation between the artist and Jenny James, founder of Atlantis

Author Sue Rainsford is a writer concerned with hybrid, lyric and embodied texts, explicit fusions of critical and corporeal enquiry, as well as experiences that alter our understanding of flesh.

Board Of Directors

2017 Festival Team

Thanks

Gavin Murphy, Galway Mayo Institute of Technology Margaret Flannery, Galway University Hospitals Arts Trust Deirdre Kennedy, Business Owner Ann Lyons, Community Knowledge Initiative, NUI Galway Lucy Elvis, Researcher [Philosophy NUIG] & Independent curator Maeve Mulrennan, Galway Arts Centre Josephine Vahey, Galway County Library Fiona Keys, Independent Marketing & Sponsorship Development Consultant

Curator Matt Packer

TULCA would like to thank: all artists in this year’s festival. Principle funders: Arts Council of Ireland, Galway City Council, Galway County Council. Additional programme funders: British Council, Danish Arts Foundation.

Producer Kate Howard Production Manager David Finn Education | Engagement Coordinator Joanna McGlynn Education Assistants Hilary Morley Judith Bernhardt Education Photographer Laura Poortenga Volunteer Co-ordinator Sue Roache Publicist Heather Mackey

Principle Funders

Web Design DETAIL FACTORY Print Design Alex Synge / The First 47 Festival Documentation Jonathan Sammon Technicians Eoghain Wynne Head Technician Peter Sherry Darren Kearney Darren McGlynn Dave Gannon

Additional Programme Funders Carpenter Pete Nelson

Lucy Stein Living and working in St Just-in-Penwith (UK). Recent exhibitions include: On Celticity, Rodeo (UK); Moonblood/Bloodmoon, Gregor Staiger (CH); NEO-PAGAN BITCH-WITCH!, Evelyn Yard (UK) Inflating the Goddess, 2017

Festival Partners and supporters: GMIT, Community Knowledge Initiative (CKI) NUI Galway, Galway Arts Centre, Galway County Library, Galway University Hospitals Arts Trust, Barnacles Hostel, Saolta, Galway Film Centre, Cork Film Centre, the Board of 126 Artist-Run Gallery, Galway P4C – Philosophy for Schools and Communities, Medtronic, isupply, Citylink Ireland, TULCA technical team, interns, volunteers, Paul Fahy and the Galway International Arts Festival and Dave Hickey and staff at the Connacht Tribune. Matt Packer would additionally like to thank: Alex Synge, Sue Rainsford, Alan Phelan, Patrick Boner, Donegal County Library, British Council Northern Ireland / Colette Norwood, Polly Jackman at Boosey & Hawkes, Sara Greavu and Alissa Kleist at CCA Derry-Londonderry, Emma Dwyer and Maria Casey at EVA International, and all artists that submitted work through the Open Call. Copyright © 2017 TULCA Festival of Visual Arts, the artists and the authors. All rights reserved. TULCA Ltd., CCAM GMIT, Monivea Rd, Galway. www.tulcafestival.com TULCA LTD t/a TULCA Festival of Visual Arts – registered charity number: CHY20745T

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