A world of plenty…

Here’s some thinking out loud I did last year when I was working with Invisible Dust on their three-year Surroundings project, writing about vegetables. A strange but fulfilling commission. Rather than let this little essay gather digital dust on the hard drive, I’m sharing it with you, here.

Romanesco Broccoli

A world of plenty

We live in a world of plenty. Yet still there are people that have nothing. We live in world where there is an abundance of food, yet still people starve. There are a shameful amount of people now reliant on food banks. There are growing rates of ‘food poverty’.

We live in a world that is divided into the haves and have nots. And we accept this as the norm because we choose to and a lot of us are greedy individuals, or rather we’re programmed to ensure our survival at all costs and, thus, we cling on to what we have. And tabloid newspapers and governments are rather keen to persuade us that poverty is the fault of those that are in it, rather than something that we could collectively change.

I have been poor, and not just during my time as an artist, and there have been times when I’ve been down to my last few quid but have had young children to feed. For those stuck in a poverty trap – and believe me, when you are poor, everything suddenly becomes more expensive, as anyone that has had to pay for electricity or gas with tokens or keys can testify – making ethical and educated choices regarding food purchases suddenly drops down the priority list, no matter how ethical and educated you might be. So piling a couple of baskets high with turkey twizzlers and smiling potato faces and lots of fatty, processed items from Iceland or Farmfoods or the like that will fill up plates and youngsters for a week, for hardly any money, is seductive. And it’s also about survival. Storing up fat in and on our bodies for the leaner times when we might have no money at all. Imagine that. Maybe you can’t.

I don’t recall the last time I couldn’t afford food. And that I couldn’t afford good food, and all the things that are rich in the right nutrients. Foods that will help me reduce the risk of heart disease, foods low in saturated fat and trans fat, and those that contain monounsaturated and polyunsaturated oils. I know what real food is; things that grow in the ground, on a tree, come out of the sea, run on the land, or fly through the air.

Humble brag but I am educated and, also, middle-class. I know what’s good for me. Yet such is the complexity of my relationship with food that I am often tempted by naughty things that will do me harm. Late night kebabs and curries, those packets of 20 (approx.) German meatballs you can get for a quid, a Peperami stick from the corner shop. Bombay Bad Boy Pot Noodles. A Ginsters pasty. Not only should I know better, I do.

About five years ago, when I was heartbroken after a failed relationship, I hit food and drink hard in the way that Keith Richards hit heroin in the late sixties and seventies. Wild, enjoyable, hedonistic times but then one morning I woke up alongside someone I didn’t recognise, feeling fat and bloated. And, having looked in the mirror unable to recognise myself, had a revelation that if I was to go on living, and was ever to have another long-term relationship that would end in heartbreak, rather than a string of casual flings that involved eating unhealthy food off other people’s bodies, I had to do something about it.

And so, literally overnight, I did. I bought some cook books and applied the knowledge that I had stored at the back of my mind – my personal food knowledge larder, if you will. And started to purchase vegetables with regularity from a local greengrocers, and revelled in food preparation and cooking with fresh ingredients. I ate my five-a-day. Cut down on the booze. Consumed sensibly. Stopped eating after 6pm. Actually concerned myself with ethical farming, local farmers’ markets, and reconnected with the food on my plate, and where it was sourced.

I became a cliché, yes, but one that may live a couple of years longer. Interestingly, as I returned to something resembling an average weight for a man of my height, and my body fat reduced, people asked me if I was ok. Which they hadn’t when I’d needed them too. And lots of people thought I was ill. Very ill. And possibly dying. Which I wasn’t. And they were relieved when I explained my regime, and sometimes congratulated me, but I often thought that their reaction to me revealed that they had body image issues, and food-related issues, of their own. Which, of course, we all do.

All too rarely do writers open their emails in a morning to find that someone has commissioned them. An email to me from Invisible Dust offered me the chance to “write a new piece of writing on the theme of food and food sustainability” for their three-year Surroundings project. An offer so wonderfully vague that my positive response was pretty instantaneous. I could, within a certain remit, do whatever I wanted. Which isn’t always possible.

I write this having written this new piece of writing. And as I sit here having contemplated food and food sustainability in order to get that new piece of writing written, I realise that I’m still gathering my thoughts on what is an incredibly ‘big’ subject. Which might sound odd. Writers, especially those given open briefs, flounder and flounce about not really knowing what they’re doing, attempting to grasp at something mercurial and, well, non-existent, because of course until you get something down nothing does exist.

Initially, for no reason other than I thought there might be comic potential in concentrating on vegetables and because I only had a vague sense of what I was trying to achieve, I decided to keep a log of my vegetable intake. I mistakenly presumed that this long list would then simply result in an automatic poem that I could submit to Invisible Dust and we’d all be happy. It didn’t; it just resulted in a long list that revealed that I eat a lot of peppers, chillies, shallots and, erm, chips. With no poetic merit. Although, as a non-poet, it was better than a lot of my previous attempts at poetry.

There was a point when I considered the personification of vegetables as the way forward. You know, Keith the Carrot, Paula the Potato, ‘Arry the Artichoke. We’d all dress in funny veg suits, sprout from the ground, waving at the sun, and it would all be like a bad children’s TV show. This is, I think, based on my main childhood relationship to vegetables formed by the BBC television show That’s Life, on which Esther Rantzen used to flash her marvellous teeth and hold up various root crops and make us laugh at how they resembled genitalia (the root crops, not her teeth). Which is why I would never go near turnips and carrots when my mum served them up on the dinner plate.

Thankfully, I didn’t head down that innuendo-laden, waving cucumbers around as phallus weaponry in a fight scene cul-de-sac. I have, rather predictably, written a love story. Partly because the word ‘seduced’ kept coming up when I was reading and talking and thinking around the subject – we’re seduced by supermarkets to buy their ‘finest’ and ‘taste the difference’ products, we’re seduced by community food networks, container gardens, urban food projects, we’re seduced by the Fair Trade mark, we’re seduced by middle-class values that might lead to us buying boxes full of organic fruit and veg, we’re seduced by marketing, we’re seduced by the earth and all that nature offers, we’re seduced by local food producers and market stall traders. Some of these seduction techniques will transform our lives for the better. At other times, we’re being seduced by manipulative devils. How I wish I was a movement director and could cover all those bases via the medium of interpretive dance.

This isn’t the first time I’ve written about our relationship to food. Thinspiration, a 2007 play, was about a young woman with an eating disorder who had come to view food as her “enemy”. She was in the midst of a battle but we didn’t present all that as binary conflict, because it isn’t. But it is interesting looking at the oppositional nature with which we regard foodstuffs and food production. Good food versus bad. Winter leaves wear a white hat in the cowboy movie, hot dogs clearly rock up head-to-toe in black. Factory farming is Darth Vader, organic veg Luke Skywalker. The whole world of food production and global resources is a battle of good versus evil.

A meeting with Dr Lewis Holloway from the Geography department at the University of Hull, who conducts research into food, farming and technology and most definitely wears a white hat, confirmed that my thinking was along the right tracks and also, ahem, gave me more food for thought.

When I worked in higher education I taught a module on semiotics but I’d never considered semiotics in relation to vegetables, until Lewis told me he taught a module on that. And, of course, I felt a fool that the cultural and religious significance of food, as well as the social, buying and sharing relationships we enjoy as a result of food, had barely registered on my radar. Even when I’ve broken bread with people I’ve barely known across a dinner table. Even when I’ve picked up unusual oddities from the world food store round the corner and they’ve explained various meanings that went with, say, the ingredients of Rendang for the people of Minangkabau, for whom the chilli symbolises ulama (the learned ones) and sharia (prescribed religious and secular duties). So, of course! Food is cultural as well as nutritional.

I left Lewis feeling wiser, as one should after having a cup of coffee and a natter with a leading academic. A lot of our conversation revolved around trust and how people currently have a need to rethink their relationship with food. For instance, supermarket food is intentionally disconnected from the soil, and their packaging and the clean, hygienic goods within were developed to gain consumer trust. But for others, that can’t be trusted at all because the dirt on something you’d pull from the ground yourself is a guarantee of authenticity and connects our food back to the earth.

We’re taking back control via ethical consumption, but also this is happening due to the rise in the number of middle class people, or people who perceive themselves as middle class, and the perception that to be middle class means certain things. Such as the pressure to buy, say, organic, and rejoice in that and tell everyone you bloody know that is what you’ve done, wearing it like a badge of honour.

Still, there’s a growing number of us asking those big questions of our food. Where’s it from? Is it safe? What damaging chemicals have been used in the growing process? Has it been ethically produced? And what about labour relations and bad working conditions for farm workers in some parts of the globe where our produce hails from? What negative environmental issues have been brought to bear getting this stuff to our plate? What’s the environmental cost of importing all those unseasonal foodstuffs we now demand all year round?

Then there’s the Commodity Veil that shrouds our consumption where, for our own psychological reasons, we actually like not knowing where the food we consume comes from. Especially when we think about cattle getting slaughtered or radishes screaming when they’re pulled from the soil.

We are clearly living in a world of re-attachment, after years of being detached from food production. The rise of alternative food networks and people taking pride in their purchases from farmers’ markets, buying veg boxes, the number of people on allotment waiting lists or developing veg plots in their own gardens. That’s all back to want to trust in produce and these alternative food networks are bridging the gap between people, place and production. And along the way farmers are changing their knowledge and thinking relating to farming and animals in order to keep pace with consumers, while developments in robotics, IT, and genetic science are all impacting on the food sector globally in positive ways.

Which is all very nice, isn’t it? And it offers us all hope.

Vegetables are mind blowing. It’s very easy to take them for granted and to stop marvelling at their magnificence. I genuinely recall the first time I saw a Romanesco Broccoli. Mainly, I think, because it was relatively recently and it arrived in the food box we have delivered weekly. And I held it in my hand and got lost in it for quite some time. It was quite a work of art. Psychedelic. Visually stunning and a maths lesson all in one. Fennel’s always thrilled me. And I rather appreciate a beetroot colouring my fingers.

All of which is a long-winded way of writing that, if I were to now start writing the piece of writing that Invisible Dust commissioned, then it would probably be a different piece of writing altogether. Because I’m still thinking, and I’m thinking more, and I’ve barely scratched the surface of my own thoughts on the theme of food and food sustainability, never mind being able to take those thoughts and turn them into something that might be useful to someone who would read or hear them. So I wrote a love story. Girl meets market trader. Falls in love. He gives her a bite of the apple. It goes a big wrong. But she learns something along the way and is much the better for it. That old trope.

And that is a long-winded way to get back round to the beginning of this essay, because I do like circular writing. I only ask questions, I’m not claiming to have any answers.

We do live in a world of plenty. There’s more than enough to go round.

You’re probably so intelligent that you’re ahead of me but we can’t expect supermarkets and freezer centres to lead us to a better world of food sustainability and ethically sourced produce, or to worry about the exploitation of farm workers, or to present alternatives to current models of food provision; they’re too busy locking food producers into terrible deals, capturing and attempting to monopolise the food market and constructing the demand they tell us we are asking them to supply in order to perpetuate their own myths and boost their own profits.

And we most definitely cannot expect governments to do anything other than pit us against each other, and encourage us to blame the poor for their stupidity because being poor is the fault of the poor, right? And being uneducated is their fault too. And you, from your middle-class, boastful organic food buying position are happy to go along with that, right? Because that way you get to hang on to what you’ve got and not feel guilty that you might, just might, be part of the problem.

Maybe that’s what needs to change, then?

Don’t worry. You’re off the hook. I’m actually addressing myself. Unless, of course, you recognise something of yourself in all this, in which case it’s most definitely all about you.

Surviving on this planet has always involved working together. Give a woman a three-pack of courgettes, and you feed her for a day. Give her the keys to your allotment and not only do you feed her and her family for a lifetime, you change their relationship to every other living thing we share the planet with, and we all get to live happily ever after.

#challengehull week 10…

365/17. Daily notes from the City of Culture.


Week #10 of Challenge Hull is courtesy of Pause Project, who provide a creative solution designed to address the needs of women who have, or are at risk of, multiple children being removed from their care.

They urge us to look around, go for a walk, see what we can see and collect objects as we go, then use our magic on these objects and inject them with new life, using glitter, glue, fabric, or anything else we might lay our hands on.

I ignored that brief, and went upstairs to ‘find’ something that I was given at Christmas. One of the most beautiful – and powerful – everyday objects with unfathomable creative potential: A pen.

In 1941, Woody Guthrie placed a sticker on his guitar that read “This Machine Kills Fascists”. And, of course, songwriters, Guthrie among them, have caused a lot of people to rethink their politics, brought about societal change, touched and entertained people, shone a light on wrongdoing or helped people understand life. Maybe he mainly used a pencil, I dunno, but at some point, I’d like to think that even the wielder of a Fascist killing axe will have put pen to paper to write some lyrics, or some dots on lines, down.

Writers in all forms, gripping pens, have sparked revolutions and transformed the world. The weapon of change remains the pen, even in these high-tech days. A pen, coupled with paper, is the primary tool to bring about change. Writing works. Words still work. Maybe that’s why they’re trying to close down libraries. And while it’s nice to tap away into your favourite text editor or phone app, those that know the power of the pen continue to wander the earth with a notebook in their pocket and several pens at hand; laying down thoughts, capturing overheard comments and conversations, exploring their feelings on what they see that is wrong with the world. Graham Greene once wrote, with a pen I hope, that his two fingers on a typewriter never connected with his brain. Only his hand on a pen did that.

There is no need to use glitter, glue, fabric or anything else. The glitter comes from the pen, the glue that binds us together likewise, the fabric that is required to bind society together also. Take your pen, and write about the abuses that people the world over are suffering at the hands of those in power, shine a light on the darkest, murky corners. Never has the pen been more important. It’s an analogue machine that, coupled with some intelligent and considered thought and creativity, can kill Fascists.

Go find a pen, now. And use it.

Searching for the authentic working class voice…

I’m not sure when it happened but at some point between 1995, when I found myself back in education, and 2008, when my ‘work play’ about a bunch of lifeboatmen coming to terms with having to work with a woman in their testosterone-charged workplace was receiving little attention outside of Hull, the chip on my shoulder was smoothed and sanded off to virtually non-existent, and the anger that fueled my work completely subsided.

I had, somewhere along the line, abandoned, and subsequently severed, the once-strong roots of being born in a council house and become middle-class and, when it came to pitching a follow-up to On A Shout (2008), I proposed an opera about the desperate plight of three earth mothers who could not source the kohlrabi they required to make their dinner party the success they felt it deserved to be.

With good reason, Hull Truck refused to commission me again. Ballroom Blitz, which was produced by the company in 2012, was actually written by me at a Saturday morning dance class when I was eight and struggling to learn a new cha-cha step, submitted to the theatre in a plain brown envelope anonymously in 1998, and it was as much as a surprise to me as it was to audiences when it surfaced with my name on it, having had several jokes that elicited that marvelous smug theatre laughter we all know so well added to it by someone else that were better than anything I could ever hope to write. This, I later learned, is called dramaturgy.

Beyond all expectations, audiences hailed Ballroom Blitz as “an old-fashioned Hull Truck show, like back in the good old days [of the 1990s]” and, had the managerial and artistic regime at the company not changed, at least fifteen sequels with similar names, the same characters and extremely Hull accents, were on the cards. Although I’m still not sure if I would write them or if they’d also found the other scripts I’d submitted anonymously.

The abandonment of my roots, and the loss of the working class voice that was so evident in the stupidly xenophobic and sexist taxi driver in Sully (2006), probably commenced towards the end of the good old days [of the 1990s] when my ex-wife and I provided the home for at least 37 rescue dogs over a six month period, the amassing of cupboards full of granola and [back then] obscure organic foodstuffs. Nobody had heard of Kundalini Yoga in those days, but, if they had, we’d have probably started a class in our living room, where it would all take place in and around our many children and their many toys and our pack of many rescue dogs.

I say all this with shame, of course. It was never meant to have turned out this way. For, not only was I born in a council house and expected to amount to nothing, I spent the first ten years of my working life slaving away in a factory unit somewhere near what is now called Kingswood, crafting snouts for Miss Piggy dolls for the Jim Henson Company, whose work in the city of Hull still goes mostly unknown. Indeed, my first full-length play, never produced, was called Snout. The first two pages were devoted to a scene description that demanded the auditorium be pumped full of the authentic smell of sponge, nylon and bacon (the Jim Henson Company’s dolls were of the ‘scratch and sniff’ variety). In the unproduced Snout, an uneventful night in the factory is thrown into disarray when the production line churning out Kermit’s eyes is jammed when Richard, a broken man with a love of country and western and Capstan full strength, attempts to inflate an unstuffed Kermit. With disastrous results. Meanwhile, the factory’s charge-hand mocks the Victorian approach of the workplace’s owners by sticking his nose firmly in the trough, losing it in the process. It was a terribly derivative piece of work that led to a stock response akin to a letter from Readers Digest when submitted to the Royal Court.

Still, at least Snout was an honest piece of work, full of anger and demonstrating how grueling working men and women had it in these hell holes, and all for £3.75 an hour. Similar pieces fill a box in the loft labelled ‘unproduced’. Codhead, about a fish filleting factory in Hull; Belted, about a violent conveyor belt factory in Hull; Shocked, about a shock absorber factory in Hull; and Timber, about an east Hull stevedore who can’t get an erection. Unlike the stevedore, I could go on, but a theatre director once reminded me that lists are terribly boring and I might want to be mindful of the comedic rule of three occasionally.

My fate was sealed, of course, when I made amends for making such a terrible mess of my education the first time around by going to university. It was here that it became clear that working class authenticity is all well and good, but doesn’t leave you much to talk about in the refectory. So I started working my way through the Dewey, gobbling all of the books up on the university shelves, spewing out quotes from Baudrillard, Laura Mulvey, Moholy-Nagy and Noam Chomsky over the school-dinneresque offerings, and reading the plays of everyone from Ibsen to Ionesco (I was, mysteriously, fixated on surnames beginning with ‘I’. Very narcissistic).

I was ruined by the university experience, despite getting a first, and I lost whatever vital ingredient made ‘me’ me. Or at least the me that was me before I found, and lost, myself in higher education. Much of my ‘working class’ output was penned in that first semester, when I still used profanities honestly and abusively, rather than ironically. Sadly, I was soon to become part of the ‘mock soc’, where we would find new ways of laughing at people that lived on ‘sink estates’, never once considering that we could deliver lucrative community arts workshops there. Shameful behaviour. Please forgive me.

So as I sit here, devoid of what was once, perhaps, an authentic voice, I realise I have little to write about, nothing to be angry about, and nothing to kick against. I eat sushi, ride around town in Spandex on a faux-old-fashioned fixed-gear bike and, despite not quite knowing what it is or what to do with it, still have a surplus of granola.

Ironically, I am now involved in the search for authentic working class voices. As a producer with Ensemble 52 and of Heads Up Festival, nothing excites us, and therefore due to contractual obligations me, more than the prospect of discovering such a thing. We are yet to find it but I do feel there is hope amid the many Oxbridge graduates that make unsolicited submissions to us. Occasionally, something completely indecipherable, incoherent and undramatic will land in our inboxes, sent from a postcode in a disenfranchised corner of Hull. It is only a matter of time and funding before we produce one of these, and then we will be lauded.

On his appointment, in July 2014, I hastily arranged a meeting with the CEO of 2017 Hull UK City of Culture Martin Green to discuss my creative plans for next year (2017). I wanted, I told Martin, to get back to my roots. I had worked in a factory, for a decade, stitching snouts on to Miss Piggy Dolls for the Jim Henson Company. Martin is a big fan of The Muppets, and his ears pricked up. We got on famously, like Statler and Waldorf. It was really good to be able to tell Martin of my work as an artist. I was certain that many other conversations with other artists in the city were also taking place but I clearly had his respect. I went on to tell him that I was promoted mid-career, placed in charge of Fozzie Bear production. We would remove the hair from living red setters that were reared in battery conditions by Henson himself, and hand stitch them on to the skins of the unemployed of HU3. Then sell them as a job lot to the lucrative far east market. This was human trafficking on a grand scale, left thousands of red setters completely un-red and hairless, and all in the city of freedom, no less. This was a tale that must be told. Probably as a piece of musical theatre. An Unbearable Truth, with songs by the re-formed Looking For Adam, sans their objectionable drummer, and with lighting by Durham Marenghi. Tracey Seaward could produce it if she wanted. And maybe we could insert some film footage by Sean Mcallister. And, so, that’s what we’re doing next year.

Actually, we’re not. We were going to, but I’ve had a change of heart. For, as Martin kindly suggested to me, this is not my tale to tell. At some point between 1995, when I found myself back in education, and 2008, when my ‘work play’ about a bunch of lifeboatmen coming to terms with having to work with a woman in their testosterone-charged workplace was receiving little attention outside of Hull, the chip on my shoulder was smoothed and sanded off to virtually non-existent, and the anger that fueled my work completely subsided. Work of this nature requires an authentic working class voice. Sure, I was there and lived that life, but I was already earning £8.5k in 1987, a significant sum back then that allowed me to purchase a Mini Metro outright.

I am not that person anymore, and I cannot get back there, however much the fee might be. I am at ease with that and, indeed, now spend many hours on the Avenues talking about offsetting my carbon footprint. But if you are that voice, that person, then you do not need to ask permission. I can even give you the first draft.

Inhaling and exhaling…

I love walking alongside rivers and estuaries and seafronts and hearing water lapping, and waves washing. The best place for ideas, and writing, and thinking, dreaming, living and breathing. And this is why…

“Although the rhythm of the waves beats a kind of time, it is not clock or calendar time. It has no urgency. It happens to be timeless time. I know that I am listening to a rhythm which has been just the same for millions of years, and it takes me out of a world of relentlessly ticking clocks. Clocks for some reason or other always seem to be marching, and, as with armies, marching is never to anything but doom. But in the motion of waves there is no marching rhythm. It harmonizes with our very breathing. It does not count our days. Its pulse is not in the stingy spirit of measuring, of marking out how much still remains. It is the breathing of eternity, like the God Brahma of Indian mythology inhaling and exhaling, manifesting and dissolving the worlds, forever. As a mere conception this might sound appallingly monotonous, until you come to listen to the breaking and washing of waves.”

Alan Watts

Elmore Leonard’s Ten Rules of Writing…

Elmore Leonard’s Ten Rules of Writing

1. Never open a book with weather.
2. Avoid prologues.
3. Never use a verb other than “said” to carry dialogue.
4. Never use an adverb to modify the verb “said”…he admonished gravely.
5. Keep your exclamation points under control. You are allowed no more than two or three per 100,000 words of prose.
6. Never use the words “suddenly” or “all hell broke loose.”
7. Use regional dialect, patois, sparingly.
8. Avoid detailed descriptions of characters.
9. Don’t go into great detail describing places and things.
10. Try to leave out the part that readers tend to skip.

My most important rule is one that sums up the 10.

If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it.


Read more on this from Elmore Leonard at the New York Times Writers on Writing series.

Unusual experiment…

I haven’t been drinking, haven’t been in a bar, haven’t been at the Dingo, Dome nor Select. Haven’t seen anybody. Not going to see anybody. Trying unusual experiment of a writer writing. That will also probably turn out to be vanity.

Ernest Hemingway, letter to F Scott Fitzgerald

Orange peel…

“But sometimes when I was starting a new story and I could not get it going, I would sit in front of the fire and squeeze the peel of the little oranges into the edge of the flame and watch the sputter of blue that they made. I would stand and look out over the roofs of Paris and think, ‘Do not worry. You have always written before and you will write now. All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.’ So finally I would write one true sentence, and then go on from there.”

Ernest Hemingway – A Moveable Feast


“I have unlimited vices—laziness, wastefulness, being too emotional. I mean to fix these things, but I have a feeling that my novels would then die, so I leave them be.” So says Natsuo Kirino (Out, and other stuff where people seem to get chopped up a lot).

I know how she feels. Recent writing, when I’ve not been too lazy to do it, has all been a bit doooooowwwwnnn. But as I venture forward and recall why I got into all this, I’m heading into optimistic territory. Trying to put the play back into plays, have a lot more fun. M’friend sent me this lovely link about why this might be a very good idea.

Days when I do fuck all…

“You get these writers who say: ‘I go to my office at nine and I write from nine till 12 and then I revise from two till four and that’s my day, and I do 2,000 words a day and when I’ve done my 2,000 words a day that’s me,’ and you go: ‘What?’ I have days when I do fuck all. I sit down at a computer, nothing’s coming, I’m having to tear each word out, it’s like digging for coal, and I’ll go: ‘No, this isn’t working,’ and I’ll just walk away.”

Ian Rankin

Popping up this weekend…

Got some stuff on as part of this. You might want to come and have a look?

“What Is Infinity?

FREE Event at Home Hopper pop-up gallery, Hull, 11 Princes Avenue, Hull, HU5 3RX on Saturday, February 13 (7-10pm) and Sunday, February 14 (1-4pm) 2016

What is infinity to you? We’re asking an artist, a writer, musicians, performers and the audience to ponder this question… expect some curious results and an immersive and thought-provoking range of creative responses.

For more information follow What Is? Collective on twitter @whatiscollectiv

There’s also a bar, in case you were wondering.