A spiral of obsessive thoughts: Eddie Peake
Eddie Peake in conversation with João Laia.
Focusing on performance, Eddie Peake discusses his practice addressing questions such as the relationship between collaboration and authorship, the politics of sexuality and gender, and the online circulation of (live) work.
João Laia: Can you tell me briefly about your background and how you decided to work with performance?
Eddie Peake: Until my mid-twenties, I did all sorts of things, extracurricular activities: music, dance, street dance (like hip-hop), and also fencing but totally like a hobby. And I remember, midway through my undergraduate degree, I felt the need to stop being contained by painting, which was how I thought of it at the time; I started off wanting to be exclusively a painter. And so I thought, “Why can’t I make all these different interest my art?” And it was at that point I started to do some performative works or actual performances.
JL: What was your first performance?
EP: Well, before I did my first proper performance, I had a period where I did a lot of performative work—like photography or films—where I would project the films onto a sculptural form or something. So, for example, during that period I shot a lot of photographs of myself naked. And they were just me… I did not know what I wanted exactly. I knew I did not want to do paintings, and I thought, “I’ve got a body, I can shoot that.” These sets of photographs were actually really generative; one of those photographs is now my website—the erect penis picture. So this was a key moment for a lot of things that happened and that are still happening in my work. About my first outright performance: I lived in Jerusalem for a year, and I did a walk on my own to the infamous security wall that divides Israel and Palestine. No one saw it, but I had a very definitive notion in my head that the walk was a performance or a performative act; so that was the first performance, even though no one saw it.When I moved back to London, that was the first time I did a performance that people actually saw and that had a beginning, middle and end. It was entitled Fox (2005), and it was a collaboration with my friend Sam Hacking from Slade. That piece was a real game changer for me. It freed everything up. That work is sort of complete and well-structured that it made it quite difficult for a little while for me to know how to move forward from there. It was this piece that worked really well. And I did a few things after that were terrible work… But yeah from that moment on, I felt I could just make anything I want to really.
JL: How does authorship come about in your performative work? You mentioned the collaboration with Sam Hacking, and you often refer to the collective creative process while producing a performance but all performances are signed under Eddie Peake. Could you expand on how you deal with the input of all the people that are part of your performances?
EP: I see a difference in something being collaborative in process and being authored as a collaboration. The way that a lot of my performances come to exist is a very collaborative process: We all go to the rehearsals and all the performers are there—the musicians, the dancers—and if there are make up artists or sound engineers, they come onboard as well. These pieces are devised during the rehearsals, but I am the driver steering the ship. I come into it with general ideas; I have a sort of skeleton, which isn’t even conjoined, all the bones are scattered around. Then I need to put the bones together—put the flesh on the bones—and I do all of that with the dancers, musicians, and any other people involved. I’m particular about saying that it’s made in a collaborative way because all the people do bring a lot to it creatively. Some musicians, for instance, want to retain the copyrights to anything they play and create, and I’m fine with that. I’m really particular about wanting the music to be original scores and unique works. That’s partly because I take exception to this convention in performance and contemporary dance of doing choreography to a pre-existing bit of music. To me, that convention goes completely unchallenged; it doesn’t even come up as a question of appropriation. It just seems like it goes unquestioned in performance or contemporary dance that you might just do choreography to someone else’s track that exists. And for me, if I’m using music, a musician needs to be involved and create new material.The way they come about—although I’m not the one literally pressing the keys or hitting the drum—I am calling out certain cues and instructions. I’ll be saying, “Can you take the tempo down, can we change this to a major key, can you play something more subtle or something way more ‘attackie’?” Sometimes, when people are talking about the work, a distinction is made between the musicians and the performers, and I’m very particular about saying, “No, they are all performers.” The musicians in my performances are integrally part of the piece—everything from how they are dressed so that they are in line with the rest of the work and with their visible and physical presence in the stage area. For example, in the case of To Corpse as opposed to Corpsing, you could see the shift in how the musicians approached their presence, presentation, etc. Because I’ve been very calculated about saying, “I’m making the dance aspect of this piece, and I want you to score it and present yourself how you want.” That was, in a way, the point of that work: to see the impact of music and sound on activity or actions. Because I collaborate so much—and I make work that, even when they’re not technically collaborations, are made collaboratively—I’ve thought a lot about what that means, what collaboration is, how it works best. And I tend to have this cheesy analogy of collaborations being either a soup, where a number of brains combine to make this homogenous, blurry thing where you cannot tell who the sole author is; or a sandwich where different contributions get layered up and you can say, “I made the lettuce, he made the tomatoes, she made the mayonnaise” and so on. Having worked in both of these ways, I find the soup approach much more exciting, rewarding, risky.
JL: Because you don’t know where it’s going?
EP: Yeah, you’re creating a monster, and you don’t know what that monster is going to be. The sandwich method feels a bit more restrained and careful; no one wants to lose his or her sense of identity as an author, and there might be a struggle for prominence.
JL: I would like to hear about your work in relation to repetition and variation. There’s the title of the Barbican show The Forever Loop. There are the cases of some performances changing name while the actual performance remains same (the progression of Corpsing into To Corpse), the recurring images such as roller-skaters, nudity, animals, some gestures or poses that also reappear in different performances and, lastly, your method of producing a performance out of the succession of phrases, lines, or sequence of movements.
EP: I tend to think about repetition in terms of the loop structure, which is manifold, but I have to be honest to myself and mention that this interest started from a repulsion to and a disdain for the loop as a structure in contemporary art exhibitions. Like walking halfway into a video installation and not knowing where you are situated within the loop really bothered me.
JL: Did you try to rationalize why it bothered you so much?
EP: I don’t know why. It was an intuitive reaction, which I guess, came from the experience of being a painter. There are things that I enjoy about painting—which I think were the reasons why I was drawn to it in the first place and equally why I wanted to move away from it—which is that when you enter a painting, you have the privilege and luxury of being able to digest the whole work at once. And I’m not suggesting for a moment that painting can’t have difficulty and complexity and mystery to it, but you do—at a very basic and matter-of-fact level—have the ability to see the whole thing at once, and then there’s depth and detail you can go into as well. My disdain for looped-based work came from that experience of being a painter and wanting that entire engagement at once. So when I started to want to expand beyond the limits of painting, my disdain for the loop started to actually transition to a fascination with it, a sort of morbid fascination, similar to the fascination that, I don’t know, someone like a reactionary conservative would have to, say, pornography (claiming to hate it but not being able to stop talking about it) or a religious fanatic with homosexuality.
JL: Right. And going back to the comparison between painting and video: Not all video work employs the loop as a method, and yet the impossibility to see those works at once, as you say, is also there. Could you expand on this point a bit further?
EP: I guess what I’m trying to say is that the loop seems to be a way to extend the possibilities of time-based media. And the resistance I felt to the loop as a structure was preceded by a resistance to time-based media in general (I’m going back fifteen years here, by the way!), and it became solidified as a realization that, actually, I’m fascinated by the loop in my show at the Barbican; it had been brewing up. And also, the loop exists in various ways that I had been fascinated by already; it’s in a lot of the music I listen to, and before I even wanted to be an artist, I wanted to be (and in fact was) a DJ.
JL: And you still are.
EP: Yeah, I still am. And the music that initially drew me to DJing was fundamentally loop-based, like electronic dance music, jungle music, that kind of thing. But also—and this is why it still fascinates me—at a metaphorical and conceptual level, the loop relates to some of my other interests like psychosis and depression, a sort of spiral of obsessive thought that is difficult to escape. The spiral can go down or up and can be related to mental states or moods, anxiety, and things like that.
JL: What about the changing titles of the same performance? Does that signal a change or evolution throughout the years?
EP: I think Touch (2012) is a work I’m quite sensitive about because it’s quite different to a lot of my other work. Most of the performance I make is highly devised, narrative-based; in a non-linear sense, it’s got a beginning, middle, and an end. It has an audience in the rounds; it has a complex psychological layering. The football piece (Touch) is really simple and basic in how it works. And I’m not using these words pejoratively. I like simplicity and basicness in some instances. I’m also sensitive about it because there’s something I don’t like about its sensationlessness and that it can be readily used in annoying media. Like when a newspaper ever writes about my work, they always talk about that piece, because you can say in one quick neat sentence, “5-a-side naked football match” and boom there you have it, you understand it, you have an image in your head. Whereas to try and describe To Corpse in one quick neat phrase would be really difficult. And I like that about To Corpse, that it is this really difficult, complex work that you have necessarily to be there, to experience it first hand in order to have an idea of what it is. With Touch, even though (as with any performance) you also need to be there, the suggested image is really strong. So the name change from Touch, to Duro (2015), to Gli Animali (2017), I’m like Touch was Touch, and although I’m basically making the exact same work, I want it to be a new, different experience; in a new context as well, the performance also gets to be different. Having said all of that, I really love that piece, and I’m fascinated by it. It changed my perception over the years; now I think it is actually a criticism of privileged white men, whereas I didn’t necessarily think of it in that way when I first made the work. In fact, when I first did the work, I did not think about it conceptually at all. And that would be something I would say is generally true about everything I do. I don’t really think about what the work is about, I just think about what the work is, and then retrospectively I tend to think about what it is about, what it means etc. In all honesty, and going back to Touch again, I have presented the work on three occasions, and I have not once presented it in the ideal way that I originally envisioned, which was to have two proper football teams playing the game, competitively, seriously, like they’re in a league match but just with no clothes on and in an art gallery. As it has turned out, the people we have been managing to recruit have invariably been sort of arty, liberal elite, left-leaning academic sorts of people. All of which, you know, could be a description of myself, by the way. And I played football on a number of teams and leagues, and that description is not one that I would apply to people who generally play football or go and support football in this country. I think I wanted originally to be able to sort of reflect who really lends us our football culture. And I suppose there is a bit of disappointment on my part, relating to how I’ve tended to be able to present the performance. I have never once presented it in my ideal way.
JL: Did you actually try to present it in your ideal way?
EP: Yeah. I mean I reached out to football teams, never to any avail. So that work has significantly evolved in my perception over the years, especially in terms of the loop and the dance phrases. I do notice how slight changes get exaggerated on each repetition. I also like how pieces are performed slightly differently on each occasion, how they grow and escalate in intensity even though they are just doing the same action, how bodies become sweatier and sweatier, dancers become more exhausted, and it reaches a sort of trance or hypnotic state. And also I don’t know if anyone looking at the work would consider it narrative-based but for me, they are in terms of a feeling and structural sense, not in the sense of whether I can explain the details of a plot. I find it fascinating how a sense of narrative could be induced by an action that is just being repeated, or how music is imposing nuanced changes to an action that stays the same.
JL: Can you talk a bit about your interest in animals, since they have a recurrent presence in your work?
EP: I like the tendency that we have to anthropomorphize the animal world or read human emotions and psychologies onto creatures that actually are totally their own entities that have emotions and psychologies, I’m sure, but that actually exist as hard cold manifestations of impartial nature. For example, a lot of the titles of the bear sculptures refer to really quotidian, mundane, day-to-day experiences. For instance, one of them is called Going To The Shops (Gif). Also, for me, inherent to animals is this sense of the unknown, the alien, and mystery that I don’t feel we will ever be able to fully understand. And in the same way that I was saying that I tend not to approach work by thinking, “What do I want to make this work about?” but rather, “I just want this work to be,” with wild animals, it feels like that’s how they exist—everything is just instinctive and primal and beyond rational language. And I think I want an art that is beyond rational language, that exists as its own language. For me, it feels that animals achieve that. I can never really know because they are a mystery but… I’ve often been asked about how the different disciplines I work in connect to each other, or what’s the medium I’m most drawn to, or how painting relate to sculptures, to the performances, the videos, etc. The big conjoining factor is the exhibition—which to my mind is the singular medium that I work in, which means that my work by necessity has a fundamental and inextricable relationship to the spaces they’re in. That’s why when I’m asked to do an exhibition, the first thing I do is go to see the space, and I always ask myself what would be the least expected thing to encounter in this space, at least to me. I know to some extent, it’s a lost cause because (in a way) nothing is unlikely in art—you can put anything in a gallery and you recognize it as art—but I still feel there are little corners we haven’t tapped. I’m not saying that I have achieved that, but I do like to play with that idea and like to try and find those spaces. Maybe an animal is still a space with some sort of unlikeliness to it or some incongruity about it, eespecially if that animal is humanized in some way. The presence of a real live animal could possibly remove that unlikeliness, and I’m only saying this as it would be the next logical step, bringing a live animal into the art gallery. But there’s enough history of animals in art galleries with Joseph Beuys or Pierre Huyghe. And it could also become theme park or zoo-like, and I also want some mediation, which is my artistic license and expression coming into it. For me, humanizing or bringing an animal into a gallery is a way of saying that we have a way of perceiving animals, but also they have a personality and a psychology and a brain and a set of emotions and a set of judgments and they are in the gallery doing that, too (to us, the viewers.) I like to think a lot of my work points to the viewer and to the viewer as this sort of subject and protagonist of the work. And, in a way, humanizing or anthropomorphizing an animal is doing that: They are the viewer, looking at us, the artwork.
JL: Following from your reference to the mundane activities you attach to the animals, for example, I would like to ask why your work is so populated with ordinary images. I can mention the body as something common to all humans, but also sex, desire, and emotion as basic shared feelings—the popular language you use or the props, like the Reebok tennis shoes. Also the imaginary of the club as this place where everyone can come together.
EP: Some of the phrases and terminologies I have used are something you might experience on a bus or on a train or walking along the street, which are contexts I feel as much part of as any other culture or setting. My mundane references are coming from my life; it’s not pointing out at other people. I’m using my art to reconcile my experience of the world and to try and make sense of it. To try and find a way of using that to exist in the world and not be (or try not to be) depressed or wanting to kill myself and in a way to shine a light on the experience of just living in the world and trying to exist.
JL: Not wanting to remove or erase individuality from your position, I wonder if this interest in the commonplace or the ordinary could be also connected to a political position or to a conception of a lived notion of what politics could be?
EP: Yeah! Absolutely. I mean, the new work that I have been doing for the past year, including that mural in Stromboli, the title of which is Shadows or Fruit, I can’t remember, or these new paintings with questions in them relating to politics, equality, and power and where it lies. They are intended as self-reflexive criticisms. And I’m talking about this as I see a disjuncture in the more recent way of talking about those things and the way that I’ve tried to address political questions in the past, which has been much less explicit, and so not everyone might see it in that (political) way. Collectors, for example, won’t; they will take it at face value. And so I think that as a white middle-class man who (because of being born that way) has certain privileges that I haven’t had to earn—and on top of that having achieved a kind of visible success—it feels more pressing to explicitly and inquisitively raise some of those criticisms in a self-reflexive way. As I said, they have always been there, just in more hidden and more ambiguous ways that maybe don’t come across to some viewers. I would say that my work is a set of questions rather than didactic, punitive, finger-wagging statements. If I want a world which is more equal and fair and just (as I think I do), then what role can I play if I belong to a demographic of people that is most responsible for the lack of those things: white men. It’s something that is being talked about at the moment, broadly speaking, much more explicitly than I have ever experienced in my lifetime, and that is really great. It makes me think that I want to be more explicit about my concerns because, as I’ve said, they have always been concerns of mine, and now I’m thinking maybe there’s a way of bringing them more to the fore.
JL: Two kinds of inter-related questions: What is your interest in highly sexual situations and what are you looking for when engaging with non-verbal communication?
EP: It’s funny you should ask since I feel we’ve got (you and I, literally) quite a close relationship to both Corpsing and To Corpse, and those two works have marked a departure in my oeuvre of performances in some notable ways. One is that they feature no verbal language, which normally my performances have, even if it’s just a word or even a sentence. And then the other thing is that the movement is much less explicitly sexualized than it has been in the past. Even in the recent past in the performance Megaphone Duet (2016), there are a lot of masturbatory actions; there’s a dialogue, an interplay with text, etc. In a way, Megaphone Duet was the most extreme manifestation of the way things had existed up until that point, with very sexualized imagery, like a kitchen sink drama in a way, gritty theatre. And for some reason with the piece in Madrid (Corpsing), which followed Megaphone Duet, I felt like, you know what, I’m not going to have any words in it and I’m also going to restrain some of the movements. So, for example, that middle sequence where they start to do slow and weird actions, for Eddie-of-a-year-ago or previously, they would have been humping each other or touching each other’s body or genitals, in much more overtly sexualized ways. And I found that conversely Corpsing and To Corpse felt so much more sexualized than any work I had previously made because they exercise some sort of restraint. And it’s like if you spell it out to a viewer it sort of kills it in a way and Corpsing and To Corpse left a little bit of mystery for the viewer to imagine sexual dimensions and narratives in the work. And also with the language it relates to what I was mentioning before, that aspiration to a language that is transcendent of words. That’s the reason behind the verbal utterances without words, the shouts and grunts. The more I talk about it, the more I feel that there needs to be no verbal sounds, actually. I am very particular about my works not being dance performances but artworks which include dance, and one of the reasons why I feel compelled to include dance is that just by its very nature, it is transcendent of verbal language. I should say, my use of non-verbal sounds is a sort of attempt to convey psychologies or emotions that don’t require verbal manifestations or equivalence. That’s all that verbal language ever feels like to me, the closest approximation we have to phenomena, which is really inherently transcendent of language, like emotions, psychologies, movements, colors, imagery, whatever it is.
JL: I wanted to ask you about the kind of post-voyeuristic position in which you place the audience in most of your performances. At first, nudity and sexual imagery are quite strong and basically take over the whole work, but after a some time, it stops being so impactful and one is taken elsewhere, considering other questions not directly related to the literality of nudity and sex, for example in Touch but also in To Corpse.
EP: Well actually, I wish I could claim that was the intention… (laughs) but it wasn’t. It was the opposite. It has been an attempt to bring sex and sexuality—as well as considerations about having a sexualized body—and how do you deal with trying to reconcile those experiences of desire with a world where desires can be illicit, where one’s own desires can be actually illegal sometimes. How can you deal with that, and it felt like bringing those things to the fore in the work was a way of talking about that. And maybe to some extent I feel like I might have done that, bringing them to the fore, and a lot of the conversation about my work is openly about that at this point.
JL: Sure, but as an audience member, I do feel that your performances transcend nudity and sexuality and that actually at some point, there is a transformation in terms of one’s approach to the work that moves away from that first layer into other questions. For example, in the case of Touch and Gli Animali, a similar process occurred to me: I moved from focusing on the nudity of the players in the first minutes of the performances to really considering a totally different set of questions by the middle and end of the work.
EP: Sure, and I can totally vouch for that both as a participant of Touch and as a viewer of Duro and Gli Animali. The sensation of the nudity has that initial adrenaline rush-inducing feeling for a very short amount of time, and then it becomes really banal in a way, or sculptural, or just something totally different and in a way stops being about the nudity or the body. The meaning changes from being something quite sensational for a really short amount of time to being something else.
JL: Actually, I would say that it never fully abandons the sensational; there’s this kind of back and forth dynamic at play.
EP: That’s true; it’s never totally normalized, is it? You’re reminded of it again and again. I guess I do see the narrative-oriented dramatic work with dancers and musicians as functioning a bit differently. In a way, in the football piece, it could be said that the nudity is somewhat more incidental; I mean, it is very calculated but they are doing an activity which overtakes the nudity or there’s this back and forth between them playing football and being naked. Whereas with the more dramatic works, there is on the one hand a similar functionality to the nudity but on the other hand, I’m much more deliberately trying to engage with that phenomenon in the work. They are doing sexual activities, they are making references to their genitals or one another’s bodies, making deliberate eye contact with the viewers: There’s often a direct address to the viewer where they will make some sort of reference to their sexualized bodies. I’ve realized in the more recent works that it’s better to approach that subject matter in more nuanced and subtle ways, where I feel the need to remove certain actions. If I’m being completely honest, I think that in To Corpse, there were certain actions that I did a lot in my performances that I feel like I exhausted, like the pelvic thrusting thing when they make the “ha!” sound. It might be the last time that I’ve used that motif. Just because I think it’s laboring the point really. I think the viewer and I get it by now. You know, they have sexualized bodies. Corpsing and To Corpse were really a breakthrough for me, but also in a way, an end. I had this joyous epiphany of what I need to do even more so in the work, which is to take out some of these very sexualized actions, because I do feel it is implicitly at play in the work in general anyway. There is a question of gender, which—if you’re a white middle-class man who has a girlfriend—is very difficult to talk about without sounding like a complete fucking prick… (laughs)
JL: Which is?
EP: Well, some people have said that I don’t have the right to talk about some of this subject matter, and it’s really distressing for me to hear that.
JL: But which subject matter exactly?
EP: Well, things to do with flexibility and ambiguity of gender, the desire not to exist within a named gender. Even though, you know, I have a girlfriend, I don’t consider myself to be straight. Not only because I have had sexual relationships with men, but even if I hadn’t or even if that would not be true, I would still feel like (as a person) it would still be legitimate. So that’s why I find it frustrating. However, I do understand the criticism and I think it’s totally fair and just and right, especially when it’s a white man, i.e. me. I think white men should be criticized as a starting point. But it’s still a question that I want to have in the work and want to explore, because it is a real experience of mine. It’s not that I’m looking at other people and saying, “That is an interesting experience that they have; I want to make work about that.” No. The reason why it is a question in my work is because it is a question I have about myself. And I hope that it is one that relates to experiences of other people in the world. I know that there is resistance to that, just on the basis of me being a white man, which I understand entirely. I’m going to stop talking about being a white man, I promise. And the reason why I’m blabbering on about this is that I think until Corpsing and To Corpse, I really wanted to explicitly make this question about the ambiguity and difficulty of gender, and now for this new piece I am preparing for October 2nd, I feel like because I have explored that quite a lot, to a certain extent people are familiar with those questions in my work. Also because of certain epiphanies I mentioned I had in making these two works, now I feel like I can take the work in a less explicit direction, in relation to that question about sexuality and hyper-sexual imagery.
JL: I would like to end by addressing the circulation that your performances have online. Do you include or employ awareness about their future dissemination online while producing the work?
EP: They are very photogenic works, I have to say. I am very conscious of that and of the way they are disseminated on social media. I feel that the way they are disseminated via images or even by one minute long video excerpts, they just about manage not to reduce the question of the fundamental need to see the work live in order to properly experience it. However, I have noticed with a generation younger than me, (the first generation of people who grew up with the internet as part of the world, as opposed to mine and your generation, who I think of as the last generation of people that had to adjust to the world of the internet) that there is no difference between real life experience, and online experiences. I’ve seen many responses to my performances, including some actual written reviews of my work, by people who I know were not there to experience it in person, but they don’t mention that detail. They don’t see a distinction between life experienced in real-life and life experienced online and social media, which I still do. So for those people, my idea of the photos or short video excerpts not reducing the need to experience the work doesn’t apply because for them: If they see a picture on Instagram, it’s no different to being there in real life. On one level, this is something I quite like—the work disseminates itself on these online channels via documentation—but now it comes back to being something a bit more problematic for me because of the way we generally relate to the internet, which I feel very uncomfortable about. I don’t like that phenomenon because, for me, there is still a massive disjuncture between IRL (In Real Life) and social media life; I can’t reconcile the two. By my reckoning, they are not comparable.
JL: And so do you include that awareness of the way the performances will necessarily be circulated online in the making of the work? In the sense of looking at performance as a characteristic of something which has a liveness to it but also gets added value with time, as something which is performing very well because it’s gaining currency. My question is whether you are interested in this second aspect of the performative—via the circulation of the work online—or if it is merely a consequence that you sort of accept.
EP: I feel ambivalent about it… On the one hand, for me, it is a consequence, actually. I feel it’s necessary to stick to that conviction. The documentation, in whatever sense— whether it is the official photographer or a member of the audience taking a picture and uploading it on Instagram—is still secondary to the actual work, which you have to be there to experience. On the other hand, it’s exciting for me. I’m not going to lie: I do enjoy seeing it going into the world in that way. And I did produce some trailers for a few shows in the past. I think at a certain point, I realized there is an obsolescence or tautological quality to those objects because the Internet does that anyway: It produces trailers and clips of the world and regurgitates them and itself. So I used to think about it more, ironically when there was less of a phenomenon of things going viral on Instagram or whatever. And then I sort of stopped thinking so laboriously about it when I realized that it would just happen anyway. So yes, I do think about it, but more in a way where I sort of surrendered to it as an inevitable eventuality rather than something that I am calculatedly or cleverly or cynically even building into the work. But maybe vis-a-vis this conversation and all these different points we have just been talking about its now a moment where I can start to play with this again.
Born in London in 1981, Eddie Peake has lived in Jerusalem, Rome and London. Having graduated from the Slade School of Fine Art in 2006, he undertook a residency at the British School at Rome from 2008 to 2009, and in 2013 graduated with a Master’s degree from the Royal Academy Schools, London. Performances include The Tanks, Tate Modern in conjunction with the Chisenhale Gallery (2012); The Royal Academy of Arts (2012) Cell Project Space (2012), Performa 13 (2013), the ICA (2014) and Deitch Projects (2016). International solo exhibitions include Southard Reid, London (2012) (with Prem Sahib), Focal Point Gallery, Southend (2013), White Cube Sao Paulo (2013), Galleria Lorcan O’Neill, Rome (2013), White Cube London (2013), Peres Projects Berlin (2014), Galleria Lorcan O’Neill (2015), Barbican, London (2015).
 Presented for the first time in a seminar during Eddie Peake’s degree at Slade. The most recent presentation was in the ferry boat between Naples and Stromboli as part of Fiorucci Art Trust, Vulcano Extravaganza, 2017
 Performance presented in the context of Vulcano Extravaganza, Fiorucci Art Trust, Naples and Stromboli, 2017
 Performance presented in the context of Transmissions from the Etherspace, La Casa Encendida, Madrid, 2017
 Presented at Palais de Tokyo, 2015
 Presented in the context of Vulcano Extravaganza, Fiorucci Art Trust, Naples Fondazione Morri Greco, 2017
 ‘Begs At Car Windows Unintelligibly And With Strings Of Snot Dangling From Nose’
‘Evening Stroll (Tiff)’
‘From London, Not From Britain Or England’
‘Going To The Shops (Gif)’
‘Grew Up Friendly With Kids Who As Adults Don’t Have To Work’
‘Hangs Around Outside The Shop’
‘Innocently Wears A Bikini’
‘Mostly Just Watches People’
‘Ogni Giorno Vado Al Bar E Ogni Giorno Non C’È Nessuno’
‘Teenage Girl Accidentally Ripping Her Finger Off By Catching Her Ring On The Fence While Trying To Jump Over It’
 at the White Cube Bermondsey, London during 2017 Frieze week