Reproductive Exile, 2018
30 min, 4K video
commissioned by Lafayette Anticipations, Paris, De La Warr Pavilion, Bexhill, Tramway, Glasgow
Pharmakon, 2016
HD video 21 min
commissioned and supported by the Liverpool Biennial and Wellcome Trust, London
On 5 June 2016 at 11:33 Naomi Pearce wrote:

Dear A,
Lucy was worried this complex ecology she had been nurturing might stop functioning or turn toxic.

Documentary meets re-enactment becomes fiction. Whatever this film is, it feels invasive. A series of interrogations, repeated voluntary and involuntary acts that breach borders, hands learn to frisk, doctors run tests, a woman describes unknown fibres breaking through her skin.

... So again, we are writing to each other about women under the influence.

FB (Female Bouncer) is our protagonist and the face we look at the most. Christa manages The Healing Grapevine, a support group cum online quackery offering natural remedies for those suffering from unknown infestations.

Lucy gave Christa a name and with it agency.She manages pain into product, doing emotional labour all the time, tapping into her own traumatic experiences as resource and securing customers through identification: I know many of u have doubted yourselves, as I did. Christa wont give u
a cure but she will give u access to another way of surviving: community.

Have you seen The Passion of Joan of Arc? FB displays the same suffering look depicted on Renee Falconettis face. See the way her scalped head tilts back, jaw gesturing to the left, eyes searching, transfigured. Rumor has it The Passions... director was a sadist, inflicting pain in order to capture it. More sad female biography: Falconetti suffered from mental illness throughout her life, eventually committing suicide in 1946.

Its a silent film, Falconetti has no words. And yet diagnosis relies upon our ability to give appropriate narratives to the body, to find the right words.
Unlike disease which doctors tell us we have, illness is a feeling, something inward, only accessible to the patient, an underworld of experience.

Ive been looking back through our old emails, not the good ones, the ones from after we spent those nights together. Something is clearly misfiring. Its as if all that physical closeness shortcircuited our discourse, we stopped encountering one another in ways that we could understand. Maybe this new found bodily knowledge broke our brains.

Last week we crushed so hard on Maggie Nelson. Eating dough sticks and drinking white wine, your words ran in me. I took this transfusion. On the tube home writing notes on my phone, revived and nourished, high from the encounter of our thoughts. Sometimes when we talk its physical concepts become shapes moving in space, words wrestle into arguments, our minds lock together. An alchemy that gives off heat.

Love always, Nx
On 6 June 2016 at 14:21 Alice Hattrick wrote:


Ive been in bed all day. Unclean hair unclean skin. Under my arms sticking to themselves. A bad smell coming from the rotting tulips she gave him for his birthday. Storm coming. The tightness in my chest making me aware of my body. Just like perfume makes me aware of the air surrounding it and inside it, air in its mixed and threatening form mixing up inside me, contaminated air. Toxic.

I thought about my Mum when I read that essay Lucy sent us:

you will find it institutionally, in the form of welfare disputes or dismissals from employment; interpersonally in the breakdown of trust and respect in a marriage; psychologically in the self-doubt and depression of an ill person who lacks an approved way of deciphering the way they feel in their body.

(failed marriage followed by endless series of failed relationships, failed / late education, signed off work, passed on illness to her daughter, probably about to be red for being ill, etc. etc.

She thinks sick, lives a sick life.

THE PRESENTATION SCENE: I remember mum and I went to one about this magical new form of therapy for M.E. when I was a teenager at the Quaker meeting house in Brighton. It was about tailored forms of therapy, but it was all a secret so no one could just do it themselves. It was presented by people in recovery, who had got better enough to stand up and persuade people it could work for them too. Anyone else would be untrustworthy, right? As far as we could tell it was basically CBT with stuff like graded exercise thrown in (before CBT was prescribed by the NHS, if you can wait long enough). Mum and I were skeptical. I think we only went to call it out as bullshit. Mark ourselves out as different from all the crazies on forums all day and not leaving the house and sending hate mail to anyone who said M.E. wasnt a real illness. We were not the only mother/daughter couples at the Quaker meeting house that day (the family home as site of contagion). We were alone together. She takes her to-do lists with her to her (subsidised) therapist she sees now. Signed off work. New drugs. Dont act agitated.

No one trusts doctors, but this mistrust is reflected back onto the patient. They start to distrust themselves. They lose words. FB has a good face.

Her inputs: mites, videos online, special water... No outputs (pain is language destroying).

A xx
On 6 June 2016 at 22:33 Naomi Pearce wrote:


What makes a sick life? A lifestyle, a diagnosis, a frame of mind? Bad luck or the influence of bad people? With my arthritis which has always just been there, distinctions have never been made. Health is abstract when pain is an everyday nuisance rather than total debilitation. It is always about managing and I dont mean just about managing, I mean more a case of organising, like a to do list: take painkillers, dont sit still too long, exercise etc.

What if, when faced with the feminine body, the cis body or maybe (fuck it) just woman in all its recorded glory: the books you read about periods, the paintings in museums, Irigaray, Cixous, Caitlyn and Queen B, the boys who wrote you poetry about your curves or your eyes, the girls who stopped eating at school, the empty space below your stomach that one day everyone assures you you will want to fill, in the aftermath of all these narratives and noise are our bodies not the most alien place to be?

You drew a heart on your copy of The Argonauts next to the line: *They seemed to make a fetish of the unsaid, rather than simply letting it be contained in the sayable*

Is this what Lucys film does? FBs disembodiments, her physical out of jointness destroy her language? I think I do the opposite, writing to articulate sensations a fumbling around to give form to feeling, if only that I might know it better, feel it stronger.

This film has many containers and they slot into each other like tupperware. The glass house hosts all: healing plants, volunteer gardeners, yogis and The Healing Grapevine meetings.

The smallest of non movements betrays FBs relaxedness: a quick crick of her neck on the door of the club, shes struggling to contain whats going on inside.

Theres a scene in the glasshouse where FB turns away from the stretching yoga bodies, she rejects this kind of embodiment. She attempts to understand her physicality to meet it as Acker says in her writing on bodybuilding through the distancing meditation of her iphone. Earphones go in, hands cup the screen, FB becomes immersed within a community who forgo presence to encounter one another online: The fibers have made a home in her face.

Christa by contrast is poised throughout. As she prepares to film a vlog post she asks her volunteers to fuss over her body, check her hair, her makeup. All the surface stuff.

Women find safety in numbers.

The final scene: FB gulping down energy medicine in the form of branded bottled water. Communities provide containers. Replace the i in illness with we and get wellness. Influence, as you know is such a messy and unrestricted process, like the way germs spread. The Healing Grapevine enables women to collaborate in their sickness through a shared discourse, this we gives a special kind of access: permission for total introspection.

This form of collective care seems incredibly nourishing. Is it the exchanging of money or its delusional foundations that make it toxic?

Lucy considered opening the film with an abortion. What could demonstrate bodily alienation more clearly than a woman rejecting her nature? Brain overriding, no home here.

Instead we have the beautiful looking word Pharmakon. Its stamped across the lush and vital green of the opening scene.

The pharmakon is at once what enables care to be taken and that of which care must be taken. Simply: a poison and a cure. Its power is curative to the immeasurable extent that it is also destructive.

Love always,
On 7 June 2016 at 14:21 Alice Hattrick wrote:

Lucys film was going to start with an abortion, well so did my 2016.

I took the test an hour before people came over for dinner for NYE. I painted a beautiful writers fingernails gold,
had feelings in what felt like a different body (medicated, pregnant). Mouth shut praying NO ONE ASK ME ANYTHING ABOUT ME. Later his friend told me not to fuck up again and I walked off before I could say anything back. Dont worry,
I dont want to keep it.

I looked at the scan of it even though youre not supposed to. I liked the drama of the record. I even liked going to first appointment. It felt nice, to be cared for, and about. Do you have any questions? etc. Later, less so. There was lot of pain for such a tiny thing. But youve read that text already.

Now I have to rewrite a book proposal (again) to make it more about psychosomatic illness and perfume, or, even, just about my mother. Im thinking about good / bad objects, projection / introjection, to feeling unreal, to being / not being good enough, to the binaries contained by pharmakon(and Pharmakon).

Have decided to write quickly as you can probably tell (you think too much for the both of us). Will write more about thinking sick next time.

Love always
On 7 June 2016 at 21:17 Naomi Pearce wrote:

I so wanted you to have a baby even though it didnt make sense.

Maggie writes that even before we can speak our mothers police our mouths. Its this care that instils in us the conviction to continue living. Back in January, it was hard enough convincing yourself.

Im still on the pharmakon because (if its ok) I want to keep talking about having or not having babies.

Lucy tells me to read Bernard Stiegler: Hes written a lot about it she says. In What Makes Life Worth Living Stiegler opens with a passage about Donald Winnicott, apparently the transitional object is the first pharmakon.

The transitional object is a teddy bear or a blanket, something that allows the child to split from the mother and safely enter the world. Beneath this piece of cloth holds something that is neither an exterior space, nor simply internal to either the mother or child. Its the border to both:

The transitional object is the point of departure for the formation of a healthy psychic apparatus, and yet [...] dependence becomes harmful, that is, destructive of autonomy and trust.

The care that the mother takes of her child necessarily includes protecting them from this object: eventually she will have to teach them to let their blanket go.
Maggie describes her love affair with her infant son: A boyant eros, an eros without teleology. This purposeless love writes alternative narratives on the body, it isnt exactly yours anymore.

In her book On Immunity: An Inoculation Eula Biss writes: My sons birth brought with it an exaggerated sense of both my own power and my own powerlessness.

Watching now as my mum attempts to recalibrate (empty nest) having performed the role of host and carer since the age of 22. Four children and more decades later she is anxious, frustrated: I used to be able to do things. Filmmaking can be thought of as a form of care, one that questions and antagonises.

FB often looks frightened. Her job is to police and protect other bodies. What about her own?

Love always,

On 8 June 2016 at 19:11 Alice Hattrick wrote:


What is it about touch, about skin? Like taste and smell, the chemical senses, its unreasonable, untrustworthy. Same goes for anything you feel in your body.

You have a child and you are suddenly more plugged into the air. into to everything else. all the inputs and outputs. everything became one or the other: hours of sleep; minutes of crying; ml of baby milk, baby massage oil...

For a long time i have not lived as an ill person, but yesterday I thought maybe thats not true. I am living a sick life. I dont know any other.

Inputs: emails from work, ngers (masturbation), tampon, antidepressant, eggs, bread (+ additives), coffee
Outputs: emails from bed, shit, wetness (is an orgasm an output?)

Side Effects of Medication: vivid dreams (i didnt have before); my palms sweat; my whole body sweats at night; so much it wakes me up.

Ppl were talking about what you need to say to get drugs the other night at dinner. That docs wont give you drugs if youre agitated. I sat quietly, nodded, yeah, thats what I heard. What they said was not inaccurate enough for me to say any different.

I cant read our emails, the ones between you and me. its upsetting too much not worked out / spilling over / too much still not worked out / wanting to be next to you, walking into spaces with you. Enjoying how you write, how you walk on your own.

This text continues alice Hattrick and Naomi Pearce's ongoing project Under the Influence, the first instalment of which was produced in association with Womens Art Library, London in November 2015.
Me and Mine, HD video 40 min, 2015
Naomi Pearce

My mum was 19 when she saw her first dead body:

R.A.F Corporal Hawke had melanomas the size of saucers. He was very, very tall and so, so skinny, his body was being eaten away.

Susan Sontag writes that metaphorically speaking cancer is not so much a disease of time as a disease of space. We think of it consuming us, we refer to it topographically: the way it shrinks or spreads.

Procedure to go through: washing him, combing his hair etc. before the family came in.

Does she omit for the sake of brevity how they closed his eyes or shut his open mouth, re-arranged his tongue, unclenched his hands? What painful evidence do we spare the living?

After they'd gone putting him in a white shroud ready to go to the Mortuary in a lidded metal trolley. They may do things differently now.

She was nurse, then mother. Maker of beds and lunches: no real distinction between public and private life, a giver of care (assumed to be natural carer) a woman with wants who like many before and others since was forced to submit in the wake of a split rubber. The white shroud: like those used by 'Shrouding women' before death became a business. As neighbourhood caregivers, it was women who used to care for the dead.

What did I think? Well probably sadness, as such a young man. And first dead body and he is only 25 and I'm, that's not fair. Cold flesh, a bit creepy. I could say anything and get no reply.

The dead can't speak and we who live don't like to speak of them.

It hasn't always been this way, dying was once a public process. Think of old paintings depicting deathbeds like thrones, stages on which the sick would lie so the well could best observe them.

'Today people live in rooms that have never been touched by death' wrote Walter Benjamin in his 1936 essay, The Storyteller. He thought the removal of dying from the perceptual world of the living was a contributing factor in the decline of storytelling. What had once been a moment for families and friends to gather and reflect on the life of the soon to be deceased was now a process of disconnected necessity. Where life's meaning had once been delivered, an unarticulated lack took its place.

Me and Mine wants to tell a story about the women who work in rooms touched by death. In this way the bodies these female undertakers clean, bury or burn play a supporting role. In fact they are notably absent; this is a story that can't tell itself. Perhaps today, just as Benjamin had predicted, it's too difficult (maybe impossible) to be a storyteller: even when we face the dead head on they manage to slip away. Lucy's camera traces mechanisms of support, the facilitators who empathise when asked and the practices they implement (ready to order).

Everything is and yet is not what it seems. Like Lucy's previous films, Me and Mine performs the documentary as fiction, presenting scenes that unfold like re-enactments: scenarios faithfully recalled; yet critically reinterpreted. Sometimes even the voices we hear don't belong to the actors - 'reality' is reassigned to narrate orchestrated scenes. To focus upon unpicking the truths embedded in this narrative or to search for its seams would be a waste of energy, its power rests in attempting to transgress these categories. The nuts and bolts or raw materials for these 're-enactments' are fabricated from 'field notes'; research collected through active engagement in workshops, counseling sessions and networking events; contexts that demand group performance whilst blurring the boundaries between work and play.

This time we're concerned with a burgeoning network of female funeral specialists - gravediggers, embalmers, celebrants and funeral directors. The film wants to give a voice to these women and their efforts to gain visibility outside of an industry dominated by men. Part of the purpose of this story is a form of consciousness raising, a tool consistently deployed by the Feminist Movement and a strategy loaded with historical baggage in the ways women relate to other women.

For the last two years Lucy has documented the Good Funeral Awards, a weekend celebration of alternative funeral excellence. Workshops and seminars covered topics such as 'Self Deliverance', 'Digital Goodbyes' and 'Credible Passion'. Award Categories included: 'Best Bereavement Resource', 'Green Funeral Director of the Year', and 'Major Contribution to the Understanding of Death'. Described by one of its participants as 'the nucleus of the industry's female revolution', this event forms the narrative framework from which Me and Mine takes its shape.

This is Lucy's methodology - she embeds herself to bear witness. In this case empathy isn't enough; she must have details. In an interview with Chris Kraus, writer Sheli Heti describes these tactics as 'getting knowledge by putting our bodies through things'. To tell a story about deaths, be they actual bodies or archetypes, Lucy had to live through them first.

Although her camera always prefers to look at women, Me and Mine shows us men first: a head of grey hair concentrates, a double chin shakes as rough hands rub and polish. Lucy doesn't linger long on these actions, not like she does when she's with Vivian, the film's protagonist, an employee of The Co-Operative Funeralcare. Caught in profile at an upstairs window, Viv (as Lucy likes to call her) has the kind of face whose expressions are hard to interpret. Can someone look conflicted and content at the same time? The sound of her ripping a white shirt into rags breaks the silence and it feels like a release: breaking up or breaking down as dust particles wait, suspended mid air.

Or maybe Viv has got it together and she's just going through the motions. Shirts must be ripped to make rags. This opening sequence of individuals grafting, turning like cogs, carrying out procedures, these scenes prepare us, maybe seduce us. Me and Mine wants us to watch when we're under the influence, sensitive to its specific rituals. Are we being enticed to perform emotional labour? In her book The Empathy Exams, Leslie Jamison writes that empathy is work: 'To say going through the motions - this isn't reduction so much as acknowledgement of effort - the labour, the motions, the dance - of getting inside another person's state of heart or mind.' Feelings don't simply happen; we have to construct them first. Perhaps this sequence of actions is another example of how we toil? We build feelings through objects and habits, by sewing gold trim on the edge of a cape or combing the hair of a horse's mane.

'We are the natural carers' declares Helen, a representative of Eco Alternatives. See the logo branded on her chest, embroidered into green fleece. Lines are drawn and sides taken through acts of naming. Apparently the women who Lucy interviewed at the awards referred to The Co-Operative as 'the dark side': it's too expensive, too off-the-shelf; it hasn't got the needs of the bereaved in mind. Not surprising that independent outfits rally against a corporate chain. You just have to look at the numbers: more than 60 million in profit last year, 900 funeral homes and counting. Or you could look at the exposés: the TV programme Dispatches filmed the wrong body being sent to a funeral, whilst others were stored in warehouses, shunted back and forth like faulty TV's.

Bad press means Viv must keep a low profile: actually be a shrouded woman. She tampers with her nametag, hiding allegiances, shedding the political in an attempt to be personal. Just Viv.

This nametag is a shifting marker that symbolically reflects Viv's experience. An unlikely amulet - first it's concealed, then lost, before it's found, revealed and reconciled. It also allows Helen to show just how good a carer she can be. Returning it to Viv, employer exposed, her accepting smile evidence of empathy even when faced with 'the dark side'.

Helen speaks about caring like it's an essential female trait, something universal or shared. In her essay Grand Unified Theory of Female Pain, Leslie Jamison narrates the ways that wounded women are similarly evoked: 'The moment we start talking about wounded women, we risk transforming their suffering from an aspect of the female experience into an element of the female constitution - perhaps its finest, frailest consummation'. Jamison struggles to reconcile the facts of female pain with the cultural fetishisation of wounded womanhood. She thinks to invoke can legitimise, almost legislate more suffering.

What similar transformations do we enable when we assign care giving and empathy as elements of the female constitution? Do women care because they want to or because they're repeatedly being told they should do? Perhaps the caring woman, like the wounded woman, gets constructed. Sometimes she is, but that doesn't mean she's not true. is a real life website despite its oxymoron name. I think of a machine that's morbidly uplifting; I wonder whether it's possible to feel like that? A video demonstrates this convenience at work: a body is cradled in white canvas straps, suspended above a coffin like livestock above a pen. A woman with a remote presses a couple of buttons she doesnt break
a sweat.

"It's changed everything", says one woman to another during the bus scene. Is this the kind of cyborg Donna Haraway had in mind? Flesh and metal eventually unified, the body's final movement enabled by technology. A machine to help women with what they lack organically, that is the strength to lift the dead?

1985, Donna Haraway, predictions for Paid Work Place: development of new time arrangements to facilitate the homework economy ( ex time, part time, over time, no time); homework and out work; increased pressures for two-tiered wage structures; signi cant numbers of people in cash-dependent populations world-wide with no experience or no further hope of stable employment; most labour 'marginal' or 'feminized'.

Is this push for female undertakers just another way of making the most of a gap - a gap in faith, belief systems and new forms of eco-consciousness? Are we being asked to see this event as a way of capitalising on these gaps - of branding yourself, and your business, or filling that gap with alternatives that are based on celebrating individualism.

The actress who plays Helen worked as a life coach as well as an actor. She's a mother, an actress, a waitress and a wife. Experienced in filling multiple gaps, at plugging holes.

In some ways these 'alternatives' are as much smoke and mirrors as men polishing hearses: it's how convincing your performance is that counts.

What about the female undertaker as the ultimate feminist killjoy? Viv as this ominous presence, waiting for her moment to call these essentialist readings out.
I see the final scene at the hotel as consolation - an ending that performs Haraway's desire for coalition through affinity

not identity. Viv and Helen speak, their conversation a climax of sorts. Difference is acknowledged - Eco Alternatives meets The Co-operative - but no resolution achieved. It's more complex than that. There is always time for polite conversation.

In a 1979 article for Feminist Review, Angela Martin asked filmmaker Chantal Akerman: 'Are we looking for images of real women or films which are really about women?' Me and Mine elicits a similar response. As the group gathers for a workshop by the swimming pool, their skin bright from the reflection of the water, I think about Marks & Spencer and relatability. Legs together ladies, heads up, that's right, strong, casual, yes, beautiful: you're ageing comfortably.

The middle-aged woman is so very rarely muse, that when we're forced to look at her (for lack of other bodies), we are suspicious, questioning motives, second-guessing intentions. Are we being asked to laugh? I want this film to be like

a safe space not a coffee morning, more self-defence class than a hen do.

Recently I was at this Women's Meeting and a man heckled us as we sat outside the pub in a circle. The weather was nice and the grass dry. He pushed his body between ours and asked: 'What are you, a coven?' Woman is still limited to wife or witch or mother.

Other female archetypes: the drowning woman. Lucy delivers her to us again but this time different. Viv jumps in the pool, strong and deep. Where a limp and lifeless form would usually be, broad shoulders break the surface and billows of wet fabric float. The smiles in her leap, like the rip of the rags, an escape from feeling alienated, a kind of carefree cleansing.

I wonder if Lucy is a communitarian? Whether she wants communities to endure? Her camera seems suspicious of the means by which we form bonds, the ways in which we come together through shared understanding. Chantal Mouffe argues that we don't have to choose - 'we are in fact always multiple and contradictory subjects, inhabitants of diversity, of communities constructed by a variety of discourses and precariously and temporarily sutured at the intersection of those positions.'

We're pulled together like cut skin. Open wounds that struggle to heal without the encouragement of laced thread: to enable this soothing, we must pierce the surface again first.

Objects can also aid this suturing. Awards, like sport kits or boy band merchandise, are at the same time full of meaning and yet empty sites for the coalescence of multiple desires. 'I'm not going to get an award from this lot any time soon,' said the real Viv to Lucy as they smoked a cigarette outside the hotel. Objects are coveted because they physically exist. In the film, we watch groups of women pass the statuettes around; the Egyptian God Anubis realised in miniature. This new revolution adopts a mascot whose very old history reinforces this community's authenticity. As protector of the dead and embalming, Anubis did a lot of work and waiting. His blackness was intended to signify the discoloration of the corpse after embalming, but also rebirth. Lucy's female funeral specialists represent a similar act of renewal. Their domestic approach to the practices of death a return to an old order of shrouded women from a pre-industrial landscape. In this sense, Me and Mine is trying to look back so it can look forward; it's a recollection of a story we once might have told.
Cannibals, HD video, 15 mins, 2014