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{"id":173531,"date":"2022-08-24T14:02:14","date_gmt":"2022-08-24T19:02:14","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/esse.ca\/?p=173531"},"modified":"2025-10-14T14:00:47","modified_gmt":"2025-10-14T19:00:47","slug":"kept-awake-my-text-is-a-nightstand-is-a-text-for-you","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/staging.esse.ca\/en\/kept-awake-my-text-is-a-nightstand-is-a-text-for-you\/","title":{"rendered":"Kept Awake: My Text Is a Nightstand Is a Text for You"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

I\u2019m writing this with you, Manon, in hopes of warding off another night of pain. I\u2019m awake, kept awake by pain. You too are looking for a way to inhabit insomnia. Little by little. Maude, let\u2019s share these sleepless hours, let our sentences pile up, let selves melt together, let the I<\/em> fade away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

To better see in the darkness, I surround myself with light, and with lightkeepers: Emma Jones, Anna Cowley Ford, Hazel Meyer, Alicia Gallienne, Sarah Bertrand-Savard, Anne-Marie Alonzo, and Claire Marin. They light the way for each other, as your words light the way for mine, and mine for yours. In the darkness, friendship gleams.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Let\u2019s look at artworks that don\u2019t seem to want to be called artworks. Like the photo-graphs that Emma publishes on her blog (TheGeographyOfIllness.com). Her Night-stand Collective (2015 \u2014) is a resolutely multifaceted project, free in both form and timeline. She describes it as documentation, and she has presented it both as an installation (Victoria and Albert Museum, London, November 2021), and as a soundwork (Voices From the Nightstands<\/em>, published on her blog). Hazel chose to share A People\u2019s History of Prednisone<\/em> (2021) via her Instagram account, instead of through more official channels, at least for now. And, on her website, Anna presents her Weekly Calendar\/Tracker Journal<\/em> (2017 \u2014) not as an artwork per se (Migraine\/Pain Work<\/em>) but as a resource for sick people to use, with the goal of coming together (phase II<\/em>). All three of these projects articulate a tension between working<\/em> and unworking<\/em> (d\u00e9s\u0153uvrer<\/em>). They also investigate the telling of sickness, and the power of this telling to bring together those who live with pain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Nightstand Collective solicits and showcases photographs taken by people living with chronic illness. Incomplete (because incompletable), this collection is perpetually open to new contributions. Going through the seventy-seven nightstands currently documented here, I am struck, like Emma, by all the recurring elements: tubes of lotion, glasses of water, plants, knick-knacks, amulets, pillboxes, lamps, notepads, books.^{2<\/sup><\/a><\/span>} 2 <\/a> - \u201cThe original goal was to collect 100 nightstands and collate all the data to see what patterns could be seen in the items.\u201d Emma Jones quoted in Laura Baliman, \u201cThe Nightstand Collective: bed artists revealing telling aspects of their lives,\u201d Disability Arts Online<\/em>, February 3, 2022, accessible online.<\/span> The photographs are labelled Fibromyalgia<\/em>, Diabetes<\/em>, Endometriosis<\/em>, Major Depressive Disorder<\/em>, and so on. I look for my own objects, and the name of my own illness. I want to feel included in this collective, to be its friend, to talk about my nightstand, to let it speak too.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"The — Emma Jones<\/strong>
(from left to right)
Pulmonary Hypertension<\/em>, 2017; Bi-Polar<\/em>, 2021 \u00a9 Sean Balko; Major Depression<\/em>, 2015 \u00a9 Emma Jones.
Photos: courtesy of The Nightstand Collective<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
\n
$\"The$ <\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
\n
$\"The$ <\/figure>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
Emma describes herself as a storyteller.^{3<\/sup><\/a><\/span>} 3 <\/a> - Emma Jones, The Geography of Illness <\/em>(blog), \u201cAbout\u201d section, accessible online.<\/span> The objects collected on these bedside tables reveal our nighttime tools, worries, prayers, projects, duties, and anger. Devoid of explanation, they offer up a loose narrative all the same. I tell you I\u2019m afraid of the night because I don\u2019t know what it has in store for me. But in reality, I\u2019m afraid because I do<\/em> know. I worry, I plan ahead, I get ready, I make a checklist: three pillows for my aching limbs, linden tea, black-out curtains, blankets\u2019 weight evenly distributed, socks perfectly adjusted. My list is not unlike many that accompany the collective\u2019s photographs:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
1. Lampshade\u200a\u2014\u200aWith cat hair on the shade.
2. Hand Lotion\u200a\u2014\u200aThe Ordinary.
3. Cuticle oil.
4. Glass box with keepsakes.
5. 3 books : \u2014 Ill Feelings<\/em>, by Alice Hattrick
\u2014 Everybody: A Book About Freedom<\/em>, by Olivia Laing
\u2014 Visions and Longings: Medieval Women Mystics<\/em>, by Monica Furlong^{4<\/sup><\/a><\/span>} 4 <\/a> - Anonymous entry, \u201cMialgic Encephalomyelitis. Endometriosis. Generalized Anxiety Disorder,\u201d in The Nightstand Collective, Geography of Illness<\/em> (blog), accessible online.<\/span><\/p>\n\n\n\n
However, despite my checklist, and my precautions, the night ends up being sleepless.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\n
\n
$\"Emma$
Emma Jones<\/strong>
(from left to right)
Complex PTSD<\/em>, 2017; Major Depression<\/em>, 2015 \u00a9 Emma Jones; Fibromyalgia<\/em>, 2021.
Photos: courtesy of The Nightstand Collective<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
\n
$\"Emma$ <\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
\n
$\"Emma$ <\/figure>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
I start new medication today. I tell you that the little bottle is sitting here on my nightstand (my pill organizer never enters the bedroom; it stays on the shelf with the canned beans). I stretch reality with the goal of properly transposing my experience, using the Nightstand Collective\u2019s vocabulary. Although Emma says her approach is non-curatorial, she does impose one rule. In order to truly represent \u201cthe heart of the unedited, raw experience of chronic illness,\u201d^{5<\/sup><\/a><\/span>} 5 <\/a> - Emma Jones quoted in Katie Dupere, \u201cPhotos of nightstands empower people with chronic illnesses,\u201d Mashable<\/em>, February 9, 2017, accessible online.<\/span> photographs must be taken without rearranging the objects on the nightstand. But, despite this, I have the feeling that these piles are somewhat staged, not unlike the words we carefully choose in order to describe and share our pain. It seems to me that these constructions, whether of language or image, can\u2019t be reduced to mere honesty. These representations aim to bring us together, and, ultimately, to see us, rather than to know us. When I sense that \u201caway from my bed \/ all collapses,\u201d^{6<\/sup><\/a><\/span>} 6 <\/a> - Sarah Bertrand-Savard, Les forces vitales<\/em> (Montr\u00e9al: La M\u00e8che, 2021), 28 (our translation).<\/span> it\u2019s because of how these objects are arranged on my nightstand, how they speak, and how they bring me closer to you. But I know this arrangement is fragile and impossible to freeze in time and space, much like my body, which is no longer able to find a position that might allow it the comfort of sleep.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\n
\n
Prednisone does ease my pain, but it also makes sleep impossible. I add it to my list of resources. I haven\u2019t, however, begun to enumerate its side effects. I have yet to find the words, and, when I do find them, I don\u2019t fully trust that they will be understood by others. A short video shows the cover of a blank book, on which I see a hand writing out \u201cA People\u2019s History of Prednisone\u200a\u2014\u200aEdited by Hazel Meyer.\u201d Hazel lives and works with Crohn\u2019s disease. In her practice, she reflects on the fragmentary nature of our stories, and on how they depend on the material nature of the archives that we keep in order to be told. In just a few seconds, Hazel opens up a space\u200a\u2014\u200athe space of the book\u200a\u2014\u200athat I imagine might contain the stories of everyone who has ever treated their pain with prednisone. But Hazel stops at the cover, leaving the pages within blank. As such, her book is a sort of open invitation, the expression of an active desire for community. The encounter with Emma\u2019s and Hazel\u2019s projects raises many questions for me. Does the narrative urge inevitably come up against the wall of narrative itself\u200a\u2014\u200athat is, the impossibility of narrative? At some point, does the need to be seen take precedence over the need to tell one\u2019s own story? And what, then, of the collective story of pain? Is such a story possible?<\/p>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
\n
$\"\"$
Hazel Meyer<\/strong>
A People<\/em>\u2019s History of Prednisone,<\/em> video still, 2021.
Photo: courtesy of the artist<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
Living with pain is an experience of coming loose, of coming apart, of a fragmented body struggling to archive and share its story, limited as it is to private language and private vocabulary. Given this limitation, could handwriting possibly be a means by which the body leaves its mark, so that each hand\u2019s own singular trembling might find a way to translate itself onto the page? Is it necessary to keep some kind of diary? On Anna\u2019s website, I order a copy of her Weekly Calendar\/Tracker Journal<\/em>, which aims to facilitate the archiving of chronic pain according to predetermined categories: food<\/em>, exercise<\/em>, medications<\/em>, hours slept<\/em>, to do\/goals<\/em>, mood<\/em>, and positives<\/em>. Anna is a chronic migraine sufferer, and much of her work explores ways of communicating this invisible pain, and ways of understanding the pain of others, with the goal of \u201cengag[ing] in a conversation.\u201d Much like Emma, she proposes the ethical and aesthetic constraint of honesty: \u201cThe more honest and genuine your entries, the more impactful the calendar will be.\u201d^{7<\/sup><\/a><\/span>} 7 <\/a> - Anna Cowley Ford, Weekly Calendar \/ Tracker Journal<\/em>, flyleaf. See annacowleyford.com\/migraine-pain-work\/weekly-calendar-journal.<\/span> Anna hopes that the archiving of everyday life will be beneficial for other pain-sufferers. However, for me, my thorny relationship with narrative runs against the grain of her proposal: \u201cTo tell pain only serves the telling itself. Pain is private, ferociously personal. \/ So little can be shared\u201d^{8<\/sup><\/a><\/span>} 8 <\/a> - Anne-Marie Alonzo, L\u2019immobile<\/em> (Montr\u00e9al: L\u2019Hexagone, 1990), 19 (our translation).<\/span> (perhaps even with oneself). Paradoxically, this agenda foregrounds my desire to blot out certain moments in time, particularly my sleepless nights. Not in order to deceive myself, but rather just to survive. So, reluctant to add to my already-present fatigue brought on by constantly explaining my disordered and sick body, I am drawn to the openness of her invitation: \u201cPlease make this space your own.<\/em>\u201d^{9<\/sup><\/a><\/span>} 9 <\/a> - Ford, Weekly Calendar<\/em>, flyleaf.<\/span> For the pages here must find a way to stay blank, in order to truly depict my silent and agitated nights, in order to remain open to a language that searches for itself in the darkness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\n
\n
$\"\"$
Anna Cowley Ford<\/strong>
Weekly Calendar\/Tracker Journal,<\/em> 2017.
Photo: courtesy of the artist<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
It\u2019ll be okay
I\u2019m not afraid of the dark
Vultures don\u2019t live
Among the stars ^{10<\/sup><\/a><\/span>} 10 <\/a> - Alicia Gallienne, \u201cL\u2019astre noir,\u201d in L\u2019autre moiti\u00e9 du songe m\u2019appartient<\/em> (Paris: Gallimard, 2019), 218 (our translation).<\/span><\/p>\n\n\n\n
In Emma\u2019s, Hazel\u2019s, and Anna\u2019s projects, which all strive to archive \u201cscrambling time and matter\u201d^{11<\/sup><\/a><\/span>} 11 <\/a> - Julietta Singh, No Archive Will Restore You<\/em> (Goleta, CA: Punctum Books, 2018), 29.<\/span> (here, the time and the matter of chronic pain), we find disorder on the nightstand, fragmented time in the agenda, and silence in the stories yet to be written, as well as in those we are only just beginning to ever so shakily write out by hand. I try to measure the difficulty, or perhaps even the impossibility, of finding an overarching narrative, and of understanding the space<\/em> of pain, our<\/em> space, this \u201cquiet space where the items [can] speak for themselves.\u201d^{12<\/sup><\/a><\/span>} 12 <\/a> - Emma Jones, quoted in Elizabeth Rooklidge, \u201cThe Nightstand Collective,\u201d Able Zine<\/em>, No. 2 (2021): 71.<\/span> \u201cSome mornings, we are spared, and pain forgets about us. Some mornings we are cured\u2026 We wonder if this incredible feeling of being healthy, of simply being alive, might possibly last. But no, darkness falls, and enacts its revenge.\u201d^{13<\/sup><\/a><\/span>} 13 <\/a> - Claire Marin, Hors de moi<\/em> (Paris: Allia, 2008), 123 (our translation).<\/span><\/p>\n\n\n\n
Maude, when I twist reality, when I sometimes forget my pain (as pain sometimes forgets me), when I can\u2019t manage to connect my reprieves and vengeful nights, when I\u2019m not able to believe in what\u2019s happening to me, it\u2019s because the deterioration of my own body deteriorates the very possibility of this narrative. Manon, what if I told you that by the light of these lightkeepers, I might be able to hone my attention to that which cannot <\/em>be revealed, neither by language nor by the archiving process? What if, instead, I try to learn the language spoken by the unwork<\/em> of my body, of my story, the language of sleepless nights, the language of insomnia? A community doesn\u2019t perhaps need to come together around a shared narrative, but simply around the very act of being together in this imposed wakefulness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Translated from the French by Simon Brown<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n
Anna Cowley Ford, Emma Jones, Hazel Meyer, Manon Huberland, Maude Pilon<\/div>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"Night falls
<\/br>Dark circles under eyes
<\/br>Your own, blinking on and off
<\/br>Insistent, like a [NOTE count=1]lighthouse[\/NOTE][REF count=1]Alicia Gallienne, untitled poem, in L\u2019autre moiti\u00e9 du songe m\u2019appartient<\/em> (Paris: Gallimard, 2019), 86 (our translation). We also borrowed the term night(s) of pain<\/em> (nuits endolories<\/em>) from Alicia (in \u201cCh\u00e2teau de cartes,\u201d 253.)[\/REF]<\/br>","protected":false},"author":15,"featured_media":173500,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[882],"tags":[],"numeros":[3686],"disciplines":[],"statuts":[],"checklist":[],"auteurs":[3743,3745],"artistes":[3749,3747,1795],"thematiques":[],"type_post":[],"class_list":["post-173531","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-post","numeros-106-pain","auteurs-manon-huberland-en","auteurs-maude-pilon-en","artistes-anna-cowley-ford-en","artistes-emma-jones-en","artistes-hazel-meyer-en"],"acf":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/staging.esse.ca\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/173531","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/staging.esse.ca\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/staging.esse.ca\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/staging.esse.ca\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/15"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/staging.esse.ca\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=173531"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/staging.esse.ca\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/173531\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":271285,"href":"https:\/\/staging.esse.ca\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/173531\/revisions\/271285"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/staging.esse.ca\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/173500"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/staging.esse.ca\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=173531"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/staging.esse.ca\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=173531"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/staging.esse.ca\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=173531"},{"taxonomy":"numeros","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/staging.esse.ca\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/numeros?post=173531"},{"taxonomy":"disciplines","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/staging.esse.ca\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/disciplines?post=173531"},{"taxonomy":"statuts","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/staging.esse.ca\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/statuts?post=173531"},{"taxonomy":"checklist","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/staging.esse.ca\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/checklist?post=173531"},{"taxonomy":"auteurs","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/staging.esse.ca\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/auteurs?post=173531"},{"taxonomy":"artistes","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/staging.esse.ca\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/artistes?post=173531"},{"taxonomy":"thematiques","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/staging.esse.ca\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/thematiques?post=173531"},{"taxonomy":"type_post","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/staging.esse.ca\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/type_post?post=173531"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}

\"The — Emma Jones<\/strong>
(from left to right)
Pulmonary Hypertension<\/em>, 2017; Bi-Polar<\/em>, 2021 \u00a9 Sean Balko; Major Depression<\/em>, 2015 \u00a9 Emma Jones.
Photos: courtesy of The Nightstand Collective<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
\n
$\"The$ <\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
\n
$\"The$ <\/figure>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
Emma describes herself as a storyteller.^{3<\/sup><\/a><\/span>} 3 <\/a> - Emma Jones, The Geography of Illness <\/em>(blog), \u201cAbout\u201d section, accessible online.<\/span> The objects collected on these bedside tables reveal our nighttime tools, worries, prayers, projects, duties, and anger. Devoid of explanation, they offer up a loose narrative all the same. I tell you I\u2019m afraid of the night because I don\u2019t know what it has in store for me. But in reality, I\u2019m afraid because I do<\/em> know. I worry, I plan ahead, I get ready, I make a checklist: three pillows for my aching limbs, linden tea, black-out curtains, blankets\u2019 weight evenly distributed, socks perfectly adjusted. My list is not unlike many that accompany the collective\u2019s photographs:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
1. Lampshade\u200a\u2014\u200aWith cat hair on the shade.
2. Hand Lotion\u200a\u2014\u200aThe Ordinary.
3. Cuticle oil.
4. Glass box with keepsakes.
5. 3 books : \u2014 Ill Feelings<\/em>, by Alice Hattrick
\u2014 Everybody: A Book About Freedom<\/em>, by Olivia Laing
\u2014 Visions and Longings: Medieval Women Mystics<\/em>, by Monica Furlong^{4<\/sup><\/a><\/span>} 4 <\/a> - Anonymous entry, \u201cMialgic Encephalomyelitis. Endometriosis. Generalized Anxiety Disorder,\u201d in The Nightstand Collective, Geography of Illness<\/em> (blog), accessible online.<\/span><\/p>\n\n\n\n
However, despite my checklist, and my precautions, the night ends up being sleepless.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\n
\n
$\"Emma$
Emma Jones<\/strong>
(from left to right)
Complex PTSD<\/em>, 2017; Major Depression<\/em>, 2015 \u00a9 Emma Jones; Fibromyalgia<\/em>, 2021.
Photos: courtesy of The Nightstand Collective<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
\n
$\"Emma$ <\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
\n
$\"Emma$ <\/figure>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
I start new medication today. I tell you that the little bottle is sitting here on my nightstand (my pill organizer never enters the bedroom; it stays on the shelf with the canned beans). I stretch reality with the goal of properly transposing my experience, using the Nightstand Collective\u2019s vocabulary. Although Emma says her approach is non-curatorial, she does impose one rule. In order to truly represent \u201cthe heart of the unedited, raw experience of chronic illness,\u201d^{5<\/sup><\/a><\/span>} 5 <\/a> - Emma Jones quoted in Katie Dupere, \u201cPhotos of nightstands empower people with chronic illnesses,\u201d Mashable<\/em>, February 9, 2017, accessible online.<\/span> photographs must be taken without rearranging the objects on the nightstand. But, despite this, I have the feeling that these piles are somewhat staged, not unlike the words we carefully choose in order to describe and share our pain. It seems to me that these constructions, whether of language or image, can\u2019t be reduced to mere honesty. These representations aim to bring us together, and, ultimately, to see us, rather than to know us. When I sense that \u201caway from my bed \/ all collapses,\u201d^{6<\/sup><\/a><\/span>} 6 <\/a> - Sarah Bertrand-Savard, Les forces vitales<\/em> (Montr\u00e9al: La M\u00e8che, 2021), 28 (our translation).<\/span> it\u2019s because of how these objects are arranged on my nightstand, how they speak, and how they bring me closer to you. But I know this arrangement is fragile and impossible to freeze in time and space, much like my body, which is no longer able to find a position that might allow it the comfort of sleep.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\n
\n
Prednisone does ease my pain, but it also makes sleep impossible. I add it to my list of resources. I haven\u2019t, however, begun to enumerate its side effects. I have yet to find the words, and, when I do find them, I don\u2019t fully trust that they will be understood by others. A short video shows the cover of a blank book, on which I see a hand writing out \u201cA People\u2019s History of Prednisone\u200a\u2014\u200aEdited by Hazel Meyer.\u201d Hazel lives and works with Crohn\u2019s disease. In her practice, she reflects on the fragmentary nature of our stories, and on how they depend on the material nature of the archives that we keep in order to be told. In just a few seconds, Hazel opens up a space\u200a\u2014\u200athe space of the book\u200a\u2014\u200athat I imagine might contain the stories of everyone who has ever treated their pain with prednisone. But Hazel stops at the cover, leaving the pages within blank. As such, her book is a sort of open invitation, the expression of an active desire for community. The encounter with Emma\u2019s and Hazel\u2019s projects raises many questions for me. Does the narrative urge inevitably come up against the wall of narrative itself\u200a\u2014\u200athat is, the impossibility of narrative? At some point, does the need to be seen take precedence over the need to tell one\u2019s own story? And what, then, of the collective story of pain? Is such a story possible?<\/p>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
\n
$\"\"$
Hazel Meyer<\/strong>
A People<\/em>\u2019s History of Prednisone,<\/em> video still, 2021.
Photo: courtesy of the artist<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
Living with pain is an experience of coming loose, of coming apart, of a fragmented body struggling to archive and share its story, limited as it is to private language and private vocabulary. Given this limitation, could handwriting possibly be a means by which the body leaves its mark, so that each hand\u2019s own singular trembling might find a way to translate itself onto the page? Is it necessary to keep some kind of diary? On Anna\u2019s website, I order a copy of her Weekly Calendar\/Tracker Journal<\/em>, which aims to facilitate the archiving of chronic pain according to predetermined categories: food<\/em>, exercise<\/em>, medications<\/em>, hours slept<\/em>, to do\/goals<\/em>, mood<\/em>, and positives<\/em>. Anna is a chronic migraine sufferer, and much of her work explores ways of communicating this invisible pain, and ways of understanding the pain of others, with the goal of \u201cengag[ing] in a conversation.\u201d Much like Emma, she proposes the ethical and aesthetic constraint of honesty: \u201cThe more honest and genuine your entries, the more impactful the calendar will be.\u201d^{7<\/sup><\/a><\/span>} 7 <\/a> - Anna Cowley Ford, Weekly Calendar \/ Tracker Journal<\/em>, flyleaf. See annacowleyford.com\/migraine-pain-work\/weekly-calendar-journal.<\/span> Anna hopes that the archiving of everyday life will be beneficial for other pain-sufferers. However, for me, my thorny relationship with narrative runs against the grain of her proposal: \u201cTo tell pain only serves the telling itself. Pain is private, ferociously personal. \/ So little can be shared\u201d^{8<\/sup><\/a><\/span>} 8 <\/a> - Anne-Marie Alonzo, L\u2019immobile<\/em> (Montr\u00e9al: L\u2019Hexagone, 1990), 19 (our translation).<\/span> (perhaps even with oneself). Paradoxically, this agenda foregrounds my desire to blot out certain moments in time, particularly my sleepless nights. Not in order to deceive myself, but rather just to survive. So, reluctant to add to my already-present fatigue brought on by constantly explaining my disordered and sick body, I am drawn to the openness of her invitation: \u201cPlease make this space your own.<\/em>\u201d^{9<\/sup><\/a><\/span>} 9 <\/a> - Ford, Weekly Calendar<\/em>, flyleaf.<\/span> For the pages here must find a way to stay blank, in order to truly depict my silent and agitated nights, in order to remain open to a language that searches for itself in the darkness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\n
\n
$\"\"$
Anna Cowley Ford<\/strong>
Weekly Calendar\/Tracker Journal,<\/em> 2017.
Photo: courtesy of the artist<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
It\u2019ll be okay
I\u2019m not afraid of the dark
Vultures don\u2019t live
Among the stars ^{10<\/sup><\/a><\/span>} 10 <\/a> - Alicia Gallienne, \u201cL\u2019astre noir,\u201d in L\u2019autre moiti\u00e9 du songe m\u2019appartient<\/em> (Paris: Gallimard, 2019), 218 (our translation).<\/span><\/p>\n\n\n\n
In Emma\u2019s, Hazel\u2019s, and Anna\u2019s projects, which all strive to archive \u201cscrambling time and matter\u201d^{11<\/sup><\/a><\/span>} 11 <\/a> - Julietta Singh, No Archive Will Restore You<\/em> (Goleta, CA: Punctum Books, 2018), 29.<\/span> (here, the time and the matter of chronic pain), we find disorder on the nightstand, fragmented time in the agenda, and silence in the stories yet to be written, as well as in those we are only just beginning to ever so shakily write out by hand. I try to measure the difficulty, or perhaps even the impossibility, of finding an overarching narrative, and of understanding the space<\/em> of pain, our<\/em> space, this \u201cquiet space where the items [can] speak for themselves.\u201d^{12<\/sup><\/a><\/span>} 12 <\/a> - Emma Jones, quoted in Elizabeth Rooklidge, \u201cThe Nightstand Collective,\u201d Able Zine<\/em>, No. 2 (2021): 71.<\/span> \u201cSome mornings, we are spared, and pain forgets about us. Some mornings we are cured\u2026 We wonder if this incredible feeling of being healthy, of simply being alive, might possibly last. But no, darkness falls, and enacts its revenge.\u201d^{13<\/sup><\/a><\/span>} 13 <\/a> - Claire Marin, Hors de moi<\/em> (Paris: Allia, 2008), 123 (our translation).<\/span><\/p>\n\n\n\n
Maude, when I twist reality, when I sometimes forget my pain (as pain sometimes forgets me), when I can\u2019t manage to connect my reprieves and vengeful nights, when I\u2019m not able to believe in what\u2019s happening to me, it\u2019s because the deterioration of my own body deteriorates the very possibility of this narrative. Manon, what if I told you that by the light of these lightkeepers, I might be able to hone my attention to that which cannot <\/em>be revealed, neither by language nor by the archiving process? What if, instead, I try to learn the language spoken by the unwork<\/em> of my body, of my story, the language of sleepless nights, the language of insomnia? A community doesn\u2019t perhaps need to come together around a shared narrative, but simply around the very act of being together in this imposed wakefulness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Translated from the French by Simon Brown<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n
Anna Cowley Ford, Emma Jones, Hazel Meyer, Manon Huberland, Maude Pilon<\/div>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"Night falls
<\/br>Dark circles under eyes
<\/br>Your own, blinking on and off
<\/br>Insistent, like a [NOTE count=1]lighthouse[\/NOTE][REF count=1]Alicia Gallienne, untitled poem, in L\u2019autre moiti\u00e9 du songe m\u2019appartient<\/em> (Paris: Gallimard, 2019), 86 (our translation). We also borrowed the term night(s) of pain<\/em> (nuits endolories<\/em>) from Alicia (in \u201cCh\u00e2teau de cartes,\u201d 253.)[\/REF]<\/br>","protected":false},"author":15,"featured_media":173500,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[882],"tags":[],"numeros":[3686],"disciplines":[],"statuts":[],"checklist":[],"auteurs":[3743,3745],"artistes":[3749,3747,1795],"thematiques":[],"type_post":[],"class_list":["post-173531","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-post","numeros-106-pain","auteurs-manon-huberland-en","auteurs-maude-pilon-en","artistes-anna-cowley-ford-en","artistes-emma-jones-en","artistes-hazel-meyer-en"],"acf":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/staging.esse.ca\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/173531","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/staging.esse.ca\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/staging.esse.ca\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/staging.esse.ca\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/15"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/staging.esse.ca\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=173531"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/staging.esse.ca\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/173531\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":271285,"href":"https:\/\/staging.esse.ca\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/173531\/revisions\/271285"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/staging.esse.ca\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/173500"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/staging.esse.ca\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=173531"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/staging.esse.ca\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=173531"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/staging.esse.ca\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=173531"},{"taxonomy":"numeros","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/staging.esse.ca\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/numeros?post=173531"},{"taxonomy":"disciplines","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/staging.esse.ca\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/disciplines?post=173531"},{"taxonomy":"statuts","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/staging.esse.ca\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/statuts?post=173531"},{"taxonomy":"checklist","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/staging.esse.ca\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/checklist?post=173531"},{"taxonomy":"auteurs","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/staging.esse.ca\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/auteurs?post=173531"},{"taxonomy":"artistes","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/staging.esse.ca\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/artistes?post=173531"},{"taxonomy":"thematiques","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/staging.esse.ca\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/thematiques?post=173531"},{"taxonomy":"type_post","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/staging.esse.ca\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/type_post?post=173531"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}