

Written in Rain II: Gestures and Exercises
Article 10 / 15
8 min de lecture
The first letters of Raw Coded, Written in Rain were imagined as an intimate activity book: a place for quiet thoughts and small prompts. This second entry gathers those gestures, exercises and rituals from my newsletter, to read slowly and, if you wish, to do.
They are arranged from the body outwards: a photograph to take, a ritual of release, a fire for a new beginning, an exercise in receiving critique, three ways of listening with Pauline Oliveros, Elena Biserna and the Bureau for Listening, and finally a manifesto for practising porosity.
I much rather think of this space as a little corner to share silly exercises and thoughts that actually mean something to me.
Something for your eyes:
Here is one of the first prompts I wrote down:
Take a photo that captures movement or stillness: flowing fabric, wind in your hair, light on your skin. I like to think of this as being weathered.
I have begun to collect a series of images that portray this. It is part of a growing study in tracing the climate through everyday forms.
24.07.25, 10:00, new moon.
Something for your listening:
A book I read and recommended in September 2025 is Quantum Listening by Pauline Oliveros. Oliveros (1932–2016) was a composer who, from the 1960s onwards, brought meditation, political activism and experimental music together, eventually creating Deep Listening: a practice she said was for humanitarian purposes, specifically healing.
The book is short, almost a manifesto for listening as activism. It begins with questions I keep returning to:
What is the difference between hearing and listening?
Quantum listening, as she describes it, is listening to listening: attuning to our bodies, to the earth and to one another in a world that keeps getting louder. Through simple exercises she proposes Deep Listening as the ground for a transformed way of living together, where compassion guides how we make and how we act.
The piece that resonated with me most was Sonic Meditations, her text scores from the early 1970s: instructions rather than notation, open to anyone, trained or not. They accompanied me while reworking A Skin of Soil with Akyute and Alice Sparkly Kat for Mira Festival 2025, and when, with Akyute, we placed contact microphones on the motorised sculptures of A Practice of Porosity for Turbina, presented by Mira Festival at Las Tres Chimeneas in Badalona, to build a soundscape from deep listening.
06.09.25, 18:45, a day before the full moon.
For that installation I was also reading other sound artists. Elena Biserna's book Going Out: Walking, Listening, Soundmaking gathers scores for walking, and one of them begins with the sounds closest to you: those of your own body as it moves, the first dialogue between you and the place around you. If you can hear even the quietest of them, you are moving through a place still scaled to the human body; your voice and footsteps speak to it, and it answers by giving them their particular echo. Then the score asks you to try to move without making any sound.
Which is the quietest sound of your body?
17.09.25, 13:24, four days before the new moon.
Something for your touch:
At Casa Raro in Barcelona I took part in a six-month collective mentorship, with weekly meetings to re-evaluate our artistic practices. One of our encounters ended with a collective exercise to receive critique. It can be done with any group of friends or fellow makers.
- Each artist brings one photograph chosen to represent their work, along with its technical description and a one-paragraph artist statement.
- Looking at each one, everyone answers out loud: What does it have? What is it missing? What is our question?
- The artist listens, and cannot reply.
After the exercise you are left not only with the thoughts others have shared about your work, but also with a range of writings of your own about theirs.
In my case, my image, a close-up of one of my motorised flowers, was perceived as contrasting, cold, industrial and lacking human presence (as negatives), and sensitive and poetic (as positives). I found this very interesting, because what I was constantly looking for and critiquing in the work of others was that it was often lacking intimacy.
So my question was: as someone whose work is perceived as cold, industrial and lacking human presence, how can I integrate the intimacy and warmth I am looking for?
Friendship, a constant mirror.
07.03.26, 13:15, five days after the full moon.
Something for your ears:
Here is an egg cleanse shared with me by a friend.
An egg cleanse is a folk ritual used to absorb and release negative energy.
- Pass a room-temperature egg slowly over your body, head to feet, while holding the intention to draw out what no longer serves you.
- Crack it into a clear glass of water and wait five to ten minutes. Strings or bubbles may reveal envy, stress, or emotional heaviness.
- Add salt before flushing, to seal and banish what has been released.
This ritual is rooted in Mesoamerican traditions. It is believed that the egg holds memory and echoes the body's silent cries beneath its shell.
24.07.25
Something for your mind:
I gathered eucalyptus leaves, a thistle, the hair on my brush accumulated from this month, clove, rosemary, ginger and rose petals, and nested a glass jewel within.
My hair fumed the glass with an amber tone, from the heavy metals it holds, opening a new line of investigation on phytoextraction.
This was something I had dreamt about a few months earlier, and had initiated by planting mustard seeds and experimenting with phytoextraction processes. So it was a nice surprise to see it had worked spontaneously with glass.
06.10.25, 23:46, full moon.
Something for your ears, underground:
In November I came across Metro Listening, a call and a score by the Bureau for Listening, and it connected with my own understanding of porosity as a practice and a methodology.
It proposes that to listen underground is to give up the search for easy answers and stay with the questions that rise from the noise: the disruptions and the silences, the disappearances and the arrivals, the histories held in the concrete and stone beneath us. The metro does not only carry bodies from one place to another; it carries their dislocations too, and is at once shelter and escape, freedom and confinement. Listening there becomes a way of being with the unspoken, the unnoticed and the unseen.
The score is for one or more people, on board an underground train. In short:
- Without further instructions or context, improvise an act of "metro listening".
- From those first impressions, form your own understanding of what metro listening is.
- Keep developing and refining the practice.
- After ten to thirty minutes, reflect: what has changed in your perception, awareness or engagement with the metro? How does your body feel, and what does it seem to ask for? What intentions are emerging for your practice?
- Write a brief, open invitation for others on the train to explore their own version.
What will you hear beneath the surface?
16.11.25, 23:46, four days before the new moon.
Something for your sight:
Going through my notes for Archivos Porosos, I started to draft a series of points as a kind of manifesto. Here are ten of my favourites.
- Permitirse pudrir. Confiar que la descomposición también es una forma de cuidado. Remember that decay is a form of generosity.
- Considerar la humedad como una metodología.
- Let our bodies be wetlands: zones where categories dissolve.
- Revise our research not by organising it, but by watering it. Regar el archivo.
- To shed, like bark, skin and scales, untangle the stories that no longer root us. Desenredarse.
- Acoger las contradicciones, and contradict ourselves often. Contradiction is evidence of decomposition.
- Accept that some of the things we inherit are moist, heavy, and not entirely ours. Ask ourselves what parts of our practice are inherited, and what parts need burial.
- Remember to carry our migrations in our joints with tenderness, and that art is sometimes a way of softening those hinges. Entenderla como fuerza de arraigo y diálogo. Approach our knees, those hinges of stability, as containers of generational migration, departure, and endurance. Ask: where do the stories of our ancestors settle in the body, and how do they weather over time?
- Trust any process that leaks a little.
- Ask the soil for advice. Remember to consult the microorganisms.
25.11.25, 16:16, five days after the new moon.
If you managed to read this far, know I appreciate you. The next entry gathers the words of this practice into a porous glossary.
















