Your Head, Mind is the first one-night event-exhibition from the How Does it Feel? series of workshops and events organised by artist and poet Josh Leon at Chisenhale Studios. For this first instalment on the 17th May, Leon will collaborate with artist Luli Perez to produce a unique space that pursues the idea of being caught in the moment of the un-understandable. The collaboration will look at the nature of witnessing and its relationship to language and the emotional. This event will take place during the opening of Chisenhale Art Place Open Weekend.

There is no privacy in summer, the streets are full of those of us who wish to glow, and those of us who leave the house waiting for rain. The rain! The rain, which gave birth to us. Here beneath this canopy, you can watch the fly, fly. Expertly avoiding the tremors of the rain. Why am I blue today?


Family, 2019

Aluminium pots, electrical hobs, 2m extension leads, plug adapters, chicken, sweet onion, leeks, carrots, celeriac root, celery, parsnips, salt, pepper, water.

Stoves purchased in Portugal, France, Spain, Austria & England


Standard Measure, 2019

Five glasses (dimensions variable), milk, ink



after forgetting, comes rituals of space. people pass in and out of the arena of actions. personalities passage by, held under light, for a moment. if they deemed it time to strip, then strip down. born as bruise. the intimacy of milk and coffee suspended for the foreseeable time. we attempted to improvise. inventing fundamental tradeoffs, before the blowback. stripped in public or stripped in private, our pains, our passions, can you take them both, for their silence, for their silence, for my conflicts. liquid assets, liquid in the stomach, heartship and health prized over purchases. bring soup. Mother. bring soup. Father.  while we wait to return to any kind of promise that might come. like the promise of a re-run, or the rediscovery of classic folk songs. my sweater harbours a field of families. we throw dirt into the empty hole. and hold hands. there are tears so salted they burn the earth. but I haven’t been back since. truth is that I did not cry on that day, nor any other day. but I did squeeze your hand until it turned numb. and watched as a robin stopped flying mid-flight.


Extract from The Same Tendency, 2019



 Something Comes Which Can Go, 2019


Lamp, Vinyl, China Bowl, Spoon, Table, Family Table Cloth, Digital Print on Recycled Paper in Artist frame, Aluminium Pot, Electrical Hob, Extension Lead, Chicken, Sweet Onion, Leeks, Carrots, Celeriac root, Celery, Parsnips, Salt, Pepper, Water.



FALLEN, 2018

7m climbing rope, Military Bed.




What is it to be in apprehension of oneself ?


The contours etched in my first sighting of the desert

never desert me, before the dust mystifies

the vision, there in a single distance. Nothing.

Moving, as pylons move when darting through.

I knew you were over there. Or you had been over there.

I knew you too felt lost. I felt it, as I felt that

this was the closest I had been to home. To see it. Not to be in it.

To believe that it exists.

As though here was the birthing point

of the conception of what the word could mean.

Beyond the systems we built to define it,

beyond the construction of my ‘self,

the core of this life,

sprouting from the roots of sand,

carried on ships, and boats, and cars, and feet.


These burnt feet.

These ruined feet.

These feet, full of love for the earth’s hardship.

Untested. Awaiting what is yet to come.


I have no disruption. I feel no anger.

I understand no pains. I feel only fear.


such sadness obstructs the ability to love

sadness is the consequence of love


To submit to defeat, is not a choice,

as the defeat you speak of has already been,

so as to say, there is only a succession of defeats

awaiting us, and this place we feel accustomed to

is nothing more than a list, a sequence of events,

memories, we implanted to increase our resistance

against upheaval.


Are we in the apprehension of our home?

I tried to listen to Lizst before I went to sleep.

I had heard in the news that it had healing effects, but I had also heard in the news that there were fires happening in different countries simultaneously, and this unsettled me. What is to become of our geography without any landmarks to register our trajectory.




Lost in another voice,

 paid and fuelled,

 by the misplaced,

 from being displaced.


Lover Two


Danced in the fortune of trade

If this you, was you,

Here we two, become

Something for once, something, dancing in the distance

Dancing to our rhythm,

If I insist, You would pursue,

Lately, the resting space,

Has become the quietest moment,

Silence on silence, awaiting the exuberant expulsion

Let it go, let me go, let me go,


  into the


  transformations in the transfiguration of the city

As the body,

This body of mine, a body from our time


Lover One


Backed up in the eyes

My focus wavering on the holes in your walls,

The holes in our pitfalls,

As I fall, you fell,

As we walked, the wind wagered

 a deal

amongst the pylons of dust and darkness

 built in the last age,

  but maintained in this age,

 Quick, quick, quick,

   Descending beyond my voice,

  Can you take this voice?

It is not my voice,




These voices, these voices


Now we,

we, we, floating

Underneath the planets of our solstice,

Blessed in lights

Used only

For the evening peoples


My shoes

Holed, one

Pair to next,

Our ears

Contemplating the hours

the melodies of us

Traffic, laughed

the cars and the horns and the birds what use do they play today, when we can manufacture their noise? I cannot remember the day I came home to find my mother sitting on the toilet bleeding, when I called the taxi, taking the time to bring a cloth, so as not to spoil the car seats, to the hospital. I do not know if this happened and have only been told the story. there are no images. there is no sensation. the flight strategy’s power was in its ability of erasure.





Performance and Sound Installation

The heart of the stranger was ripped

From his chest, when they wrote his future

in their constitution. His bags were our bags to carry,

we were blind to not see how,

until, he was dead, and misconstrued

relationships returned from depths

to the surface they had tried to feed us.

Do they not see dissonance is love displaced?

one silence becomes a cry of others

behind the closed ceremonies,

hush-hush manoeuvres, the interlaced players

telephone home. Their new-found chairs

a misplaced needle in their voice

I cannot feel the body of this future



performed at Montvalent Festival & Lost Senses, Guest Projects


White painted 3m x 3m square. 1 chair (preferably from French Art Deco style café influence)


Two men enter a 3m x 3m square. One sits on the wooden chair, the other paces. They make eye contact. The one sitting down stands up. They speak. They circle one another as they speak. One speaks in French, the other in English. During any kind of interruption, they shout “CAR!” in their respective languages, step out and then step back into the square. The chair is lifted and moved multiple times.




Your words are whispers now.


Our words are whispers now.


The memory turns

Black   burdened

by   blurriness

out of one dream

another is born

out of one life

many were wasted


faltering in fear, I searched for ways to give

as the weather gives us its temper,

and the books give us their feeling,

under this peachy orange hue,

illuminating underneath closed off feelings

I wished to summon, my senses trapped,

one over the other, the other over another,

out of sync, out of self.

Where are we now?


Again, in the escalating wildness of the monolithic state,

searching for the flattened land, the sea and its horizon.

Where do we go when there is nowhere to return to?

When there is nowhere we belong to?

Cradled in youth, our separation comes in pulses,

until bursts of memory treat us to their miss-shaped forms

and retrieve the ritual of care.


I called out to this non-space. And silence returned.

I held my hands to my face. And silence returned.

I watched the water’s stream. And silence returned.

I smelt the orchid’s bloom. And silence returned.


Silence returned, as the walls crumbled into cracks,

allowing new weeds to bloom,

and bring about the first transition we had felt in years,

the first phase of the second movement,

balanced between the thin line that signals

where I am and where you were.

Such that the upheaval of my spirit recalls on you,

in moments that appear too dark to see,

and all the while, a silence returned.


last night was nice