Sam breathing, Sa Riera CAT September 2002
(Kitchen notes)

one moment you are sitting by the window, you thought, looking down towards the river, across the open demolished area to the great crane, what a long day this has been, you think, seeing how the light was failing behind the Finnieston crane, that massive iron work, as you thought, the next moment you are here with the baby where it lies on its baby sheet, the greenish sheet, which your great grandmother, Noleen 'Mammy' Awalt had sewn, with the cream decoration, where you experienced infantile appetites, being torn apart by wolves [ ], food, sleep and the start of time at the same time as you go to clumsily gather the baby up, you semi recoil, receiving its double protest, as it feels you seize it, you are seized back by feelings which catch you in mid air, the way the baby, crying and twisting their body, is also being dangled, a kind of duplication occurs in which, in neither crushing nor dropping the baby in its tangle of bedding, you are also holding, in some sense at the same time, yourselves, as these feelings take hold of you, which, unable to be discharged, this bundle of feelings / baby clothes, drop / crush / dashed etc, in this wrestling game between the small / large, also amplified / hampered in the act of life saving, as experienced, there begins, you can say, here, to be holding, that is to say, moment by moment in a precarious experiment, at once of this infant in its terror, in its great amplified difficulty, and in the other, the armature / operator, to do / show safety, as you thought, now you ve made it roar, and these feelings of yours, of raging despair, are also tangled in there, breathe, so that, a kind of entrustment of one to another in need occurs an eye would open, fixing you in a vice like grip, which is the x-ray eye, as you felt, of the creator, walking in the evening in the garden, where you ve been having sex in the bushes, looking straight through you, as you stared back in to them, begin your walk, little by little you ll get the hang of it, you re told one step at a time, up and down – why speak of the difficulty of things which are done millions of times a day by millions of mothers? time which is a thick mass comes to be divided into footfalls, the baby begins to settle, only to go off again, as it was dropping off, when its fears rear up on it, the walker sets off again, pushing the ground behind them down the stone stairs out in to the clear evening, the baby would sniff the cold evening air and hesitate, seeming to listen, before it began again – so carry them down to where the river – there was some warmth still to the air, early as it was, the very end of winter – the river running with flood water, up in the mountains the snow was thawing, slipping off the branches, and the fern shoots showing, the buds, once that concentration of sugars was reached, burst – the baby would look up in to your face, much as to say, now what – note: you struggle to hold in the mind the true extent of your exposure, you refer to the commonplaces of so-called child care, the times when you were, as you say, at your wits end, naturally you hesitate, as they say, to stick with it, to follow the child, where it turns to you and leads you on, for it has no accounting for danger, no economies, protection, risk assessment – nothing is spared, the way Blake's strange muscular infant, the redeemer with its mop of hair holds its finger raised – you hesitate to be drawn again into such an area of danger – of struggle. to be devoured, seen to survive, destroyed / survived experienced as an embrace – a grip – how you long to be crushed in that embrace and at the same time to crush, to find both yourselves and the object of your embrace so resilient as to shrug off your embrace. the harder you are embracing this object of your embrace the harder this object of yours embraces you back, in the way you see Jacob struggling with the angel, this eternal grapple, in Epstein's massive carving, locked, in that huge stone lump, literally inseparable, carved, as they are, from the same great mass of stone, this stone which you take to be a metamorphic stone, fused under pressures of inconceivable magnitude, in the earth's core, at inconceivable temperature, under which certain sedimentary rocks in fact fuse to form a far tougher material – look down into the running river, say nothing, having nothing to say, you who are meant, above all, to have something to say – a kind of calm flows from that admission, somehow allied with the surface of the river, something about the sound of the moving river, which is communicated to the baby too, where it is lying, so it paused, and continues to lie quiet.
one moment you are sitting by the window, you thought, looking down towards the river, across the open demolished area to the great crane, what a long day this has been, you think, seeing how the light was failing behind the Finnieston crane, that massive iron work, as you thought, the next moment you are here with the baby where it lies on its baby sheet, the greenish sheet, which your great grandmother, Noleen 'Mammy' Awalt had sewn, with the cream decoration, where you experienced infantile appetites, being torn apart by wolves [ ], food, sleep and the start of time at the same time as you go to clumsily gather the baby up, you semi recoil, receiving its double protest, as it feels you seize it, you are seized back by feelings which catch you in mid air, the way the baby, crying and twisting their body, is also being dangled, a kind of duplication occurs in which, in neither crushing nor dropping the baby in its tangle of bedding, you are also holding, in some sense at the same time, yourselves, as these feelings take hold of you, which, unable to be discharged, this bundle of feelings / baby clothes, drop / crush / dashed etc, in this wrestling game between the small / large, also amplified / hampered in the act of life saving, as experienced, there begins, you can say, here, to be holding, that is to say, moment by moment in a precarious experiment, at once of this infant in its terror, in its great amplified difficulty, and in the other, the armature / operator, to do / show safety, as you thought, now you ve made it roar, and these feelings of yours, of raging despair, are also tangled in there, breathe, so that, a kind of entrustment of one to another in need occurs an eye would open, fixing you in a vice like grip, which is the x-ray eye, as you felt, of the creator, walking in the evening in the garden, where you ve been having sex in the bushes, looking straight through you, as you stared back in to them, begin your walk, little by little you ll get the hang of it, you re told one step at a time, up and down – why speak of the difficulty of things which are done millions of times a day by millions of mothers? time which is a thick mass comes to be divided into footfalls, the baby begins to settle, only to go off again, as it was dropping off, when its fears rear up on it, the walker sets off again, pushing the ground behind them down the stone stairs out in to the clear evening, the baby would sniff the cold evening air and hesitate, seeming to listen, before it began again – so carry them down to where the river – there was some warmth still to the air, early as it was, the very end of winter – the river running with flood water, up in the mountains the snow was thawing, slipping off the branches, and the fern shoots showing, the buds, once that concentration of sugars was reached, burst – the baby would look up in to your face, much as to say, now what – note: you struggle to hold in the mind the true extent of your exposure, you refer to the commonplaces of so-called child care, the times when you were, as you say, at your wits end, naturally you hesitate, as they say, to stick with it, to follow the child, where it turns to you and leads you on, for it has no accounting for danger, no economies, protection, risk assessment – nothing is spared, the way Blake's strange muscular infant, the redeemer with its mop of hair holds its finger raised – you hesitate to be drawn again into such an area of danger – of struggle. to be devoured, seen to survive, destroyed / survived experienced as an embrace – a grip – how you long to be crushed in that embrace and at the same time to crush, to find both yourselves and the object of your embrace so resilient as to shrug off your embrace. the harder you are embracing this object of your embrace the harder this object of yours embraces you back, in the way you see Jacob struggling with the angel, this eternal grapple, in Epstein's massive carving, locked, in that huge stone lump, literally inseparable, carved, as they are, from the same great mass of stone, this stone which you take to be a metamorphic stone, fused under pressures of inconceivable magnitude, in the earth's core, at inconceivable temperature, under which certain sedimentary rocks in fact fuse to form a far tougher material – look down into the running river, say nothing, having nothing to say, you who are meant, above all, to have something to say – a kind of calm flows from that admission, somehow allied with the surface of the river, something about the sound of the moving river, which is communicated to the baby too, where it is lying, so it paused, and continues to lie quiet.
so one moment you are sitting by the window, looking down towards the river, across the open demolished area to the great crane, what a long day this has been, you think, seeing how the light was falling behind the Finnieston crane, that massive iron work, as you thought, the next moment you are here with the baby its baby sheet, the greenish sheet, which your great grandmother, Noleen 'Mammy' Awalt had sewn, with the cream decoration, where you experienced infantile appetites, being torn apart by wolves [ ], food, sleep and the start of time at the same time as you go to clumsily gather the baby up, you semi recoil, receiving its double protest, as it feels you seize it, you are seized back by feelings which catch you in mid air, the way the baby, crying and twisting their body, is also being dangled, a kind of duplication occurs in which, in neither crushing nor dropping the baby in its tangle of bedding, you are also holding, in some sense at the same time, yourselves, as these feelings take hold of you, which, unable to be discharged, this bundle of feelings / baby clothes, dropped, crushed dashed etc, in this wrestling process between the larger / smaller, but also constrained / amplified in the act of life saving, as experienced, there begins, you can say, here, to be holding, that is to say, moment by moment in a precarious experiment, at once of this infant in its terror, in its great amplified difficulty, and in the other, the armature / operator, to do / show safety, as you thought, now you ve made it roar, and these feelings of yours, of raging despair, are also tangled in there, breathe, so that, a kind of entrustment of one to another in need occurs an eye would open, fixing you in a vice like grip, which is the x-ray eye, as you felt, of the creator, walking in the evening in the garden, where you ve been having sex in the bushes, looking straight through you, as you stared back in to them, begin your walk, little by little you ll get the hang of it, you re told one step at a time, up and down – why speak of the difficulty of things which are done millions of times a day by millions of mothers? time which is a mass comes to be divided into footfalls, the baby begins to settle, only to go off again, as it was dropping off, when its fears rear up on it, the walker sets off again, pushing the ground behind them down the stone stairs out in to the clear evening, the baby would sniff the cold evening air and hesitate, seeming to listen, before it began again – so carry them down to where the river – there was some warmth still to the air, early as it was, the very end of winter – the river running with flood water, up in the mountains the snow was thawing, slipping off the branches, and the fern shoots showing, the buds, once that concentration of sugars was reached, burst – the baby would look up in to your face, much as to say, now what – note: you struggle to hold in the mind the true extent of your exposure, you refer to the commonplaces of so-called child care, the times when you were, as you say, at your wits end, naturally you hesitate, as they say, to stick with it, to follow the child, where it turns to you and leads you on, for it has no accounting for danger, no economies, protection, risk assessment – nothing is spared, the way Blake's strange muscular infant, the redeemer with its mop of hair holds its finger raised – you hesitate to be drawn again into such an area of danger – of struggle. to be devoured, seen to survive, destroyed / survived experienced as an embrace – a grip – how you long to be crushed in that embrace and at the same time to crush, to find both yourselves and the object of your embrace so resilient as to shrug off your embrace. the harder you are embracing this object of your embrace the harder this object of yours embraces you back, in the way you see Jacob struggling with the angel, this eternal grapple, in Epstein's massive carving, locked, in that huge stone lump, literally inseparable, carved, as they are, from the same great mass of stone, this stone which you take to be a metamorphic stone, fused under pressures of inconceivable magnitude, in the earth's core, at inconceivable temperature, under which certain sedimentary rocks in fact fuse to form a far tougher material – look down into the running river, say nothing, having nothing to say, you who are meant, above all, to have something to say – a kind of calm flows from that admission, somehow allied with the surface of the river, something about the sound of the moving river, which is communicated to the baby too, where it is lying, so it paused, and continues to lie quiet.
seven years ago, writes Roger Phillips in the introduction to Wild Flowers of Britain, when my son Sam was five, we started a routine of going to the country, rain or shine, Summer or Winter, and cooking a picnic lunch over an open fire – it was then he began, you read, to make the images of wild plants which can be seen in that book, arranged by season – what a considered and moving document! mixing care and method with informality – what a human thing, you think, as you leaf through those pictures, each with its own simple yet precise description What more can be expected of a person? you can ask, than to put in place a small routine and, simply by continuing, begin to assemble a record, despite themselves almost, of what they have been doing, using whatever curiosity / training they can piece together – each or these photographs corresponds to an instant, you can imagine the smells and the sounds of squelching, crackling, as the photographer knelt in the long spring grass, the autumn leaves, carefully shielding the glass from his breath – although many show a collection of cuttings, carefully preserved and arranged on a table, back now, you imagine in London, much as a still life painter might bring in some glistening flower cut from the garden, or the market, and set to work to capture it, and sometimes later bring another plant, from another season, creating a mashup of the seasons which is somehow more disorienting for being so fresh, sharp and momentary the flowering plants with are plainly on view. the captions tell you what they are. also present, in less direct way, are the series of negotiations that make this project a collaboration between two people, one of them a child. you sense at once that the impetus to go out of the city comes from the strains and possibilities of that relationship, a sense that that relationship is to be made, that it needs to work for both, that it could only come about between them, perhaps. just now you read of the death of Roger Phillips at the age of 88 and you imagine these photographs of ephemeral things – flowers, fungi – again in that light. his son Sam must himself be an old man now, and your own son Sam, whose troubled breathing is heard in the recording from Sa Riera, is 25
seven years ago, writes Roger Phillips in the introduction to Wild Flowers of Britain, when my son Sam was five, we started a routine of going to the country, rain or shine, Summer or Winter, and cooking a picnic lunch over an open fire – it was then he began, you read, to make the images of wild plants which can be seen in that book, arranged by season – what a considered and moving document! mixing care and method with informality – what a human thing, you think, as you leaf through those pictures, each with its own simple yet precise description What more can be expected of a person? you can ask, than to put in place a small routine and, simply by continuing, begin to assemble a record, despite themselves almost, of what they have been doing, using whatever curiosity / training they can piece together – each or these photographs corresponds to an instant, you can imagine the smells and the sounds of squelching, crackling, as the photographer knelt in the long spring grass, the autumn leaves, carefully shielding the glass from his breath – although many show a collection of cuttings, carefully preserved and arranged on a table, back now, you imagine in London, much as a still life painter might bring in some glistening flower cut from the garden, or the market, and set to work to capture it, and sometimes later bring another plant, from another season, creating a mashup of the seasons which is somehow more disorienting for being so fresh, sharp and momentary the flowering plants with are plainly on view. the captions tell you what they are. also present, in less direct way, are the series of negotiations that make this project a collaboration between two people, one of them a child. you sense at once that the impetus to go out of the city comes from the strains and possibilities of that relationship, a sense that that relationship is to be made, that it needs to work for both, that it could only come about between them, perhaps. just now you read of the death of Roger Phillips at the age of 88 and you imagine these photographs of ephemeral things – flowers, fungi – again in that light. his son Sam must himself be an old man now, and your own son Sam, whose troubled breathing is heard in the recording from Sa Riera, is 25
seven years ago, writes Roger Phillips in the introduction to Wild Flowers of Britain, when my son Sam was five, we started a routine of going to the country, rain or shine, Summer or Winter, and cooking a picnic lunch over an open fire – it was then he began, you read, to make the images of wild plants which can be seen in that book, arranged by season – what a considered and moving document! mixing care and method with informality – what a human thing, you think, as you leaf through those pictures, each with its own simple yet precise description What more can be expected of a person? you can ask, than to put in place a small routine and, simply by continuing, begin to assemble a record, despite themselves almost, of what they have been doing, using whatever curiosity / training they can piece together – each or these photographs corresponds to an instant, you can imagine the smells and the sounds of squelching, crackling, as the photographer knelt in the long spring grass, the autumn leaves, carefully shielding the glass from his breath – although many show a collection of cuttings, carefully preserved and arranged on a table, back now, you imagine in London, much as a still life painter might bring in some glistening flower cut from the garden, or the market, and set to work to capture it, and sometimes later bring another plant, from another season, creating a mashup of the seasons which is somehow more disorienting for being so fresh, sharp and momentary the flowering plants with are plainly on view. the captions tell you what they are. also present, in less direct way, are the series of negotiations that make this project a collaboration between two people, one of them a child. you sense at once that the impetus to go out of the city comes from the strains and possibilities of that relationship, a sense that that relationship is to be made, that it needs to work for both, that it could only come about between them, perhaps. just now you read of the death of Roger Phillips at the age of 88 and you imagine these photographs of ephemeral things – flowers, fungi – again in that light. his son Sam must be an old man now, and your own son Sam, whose troubled breathing is heard in the recording from Sa Riera, is 25
another thing when his brain was still young [ ], S had a febrile convulsion which was like a quiet fit which happened in the house, in the kitchen. there are these moments when you see through. in this case, it was his eyes that rolled up in his head like this un seeing and there was froth on his lips. you took hold of him in your arms and you were shouting at him and there was no response. another moment was seeing him go under anaesthetic. they had him counting carefully, then he wasn't there. these can be points of opening onto the situations of your own and others the plurality you have most in common [ ]. the way pandemic pulled the curtains aside, the theater was laid bare. these reveals are a basis for planning and organising. maybe to add that this can happen in other places eg in strange English landscapes the way Justin Barton and Mark Fisher talk about the lucid eerie [ ]. but you want to also locate these things in the house, in the kitchen, as a place of diy ethics and study. you want the family to be thought as a collective and what follows from that. for that to happen you have to literally pull your eyes away from spectacles of celebrity and representation, the political / cultural field. you have to actively resist the collapse of things into spectacle / specimen. the domestic is set against that. it can be the ground of oppression. but it can also be a place of opening. that is something you wanted to point to again: that radical potential. for / from contact. actually you wanted to evoke that, as something you feel: the confusion that comes from being in these situations wasiwasi which oscillate between banality and revelation. the work of documentary can be to chart that overlay, to accumulate instances of it – interference archive [ ] you are in that thing and it draws open like a long dry bracket. keep him cool, they were saying, the emergency services, you re thinking you ve lost him, an ambulance is on the way, they were saying, you re thinking how will you live now, you look into the unseeing eyes and want to be gone, it didn't arrive, you drove to casualty. come back to that glimpse into the eye of the heart, that old organ knew exactly what to do, the heart muscle starts to labour hugely so you are light headed, churning with aerated blood. you can snatch up the heavy body and run to the door that time you went to the Lizard peninsula, walking along the narrow coastal track, running out ahead of you together, that hot summer, something about the space along the cliff tops, close to the sky, thick with bracken and flowering undergrowth above the sea cliffs – on the other side, the tall flues of the mine engines, at the base, tiny shafts and tunnels where people crawled out under the sea to cut coal, the sea far below, suddenly realizing danger and shouting his name (the name you always seem to be shouting) you must make a note, Marion told you, when S was x-rayed for TB, these things slip away, these impressions, childhood passed so quickly, it was a question of making a note, how S looked like a pigeon, with his arms held up by P, he looked transparent, wearing only a nappy, it was Winter, the technician went into a glass cubicle, you had to stand in a corner of the darkened room, the apparatus approached S on the table, who was facing it, until it was close to them, where P was standing holding him, wearing a lead apron, note the contrast between the Winter clothes, the great apron of lead, and S, holding up his arms in front of the machine when you are the ones who can be there – at the demonstration, the action – what you bring in solidarity is your vulnerabilities [ ]
another thing when his brain was still young [ ], S had a febrile convulsion which was like a quiet fit which happened in the house, in the kitchen. there are these moments when you see through. in this case, it was his eyes that rolled up in his head like this un seeing and there was froth on his lips. you took hold of him in your arms and you were shouting at him and there was no response. another moment was seeing him go under anaesthetic. they had him counting carefully, then he wasn't there. these can be points of opening onto the situations of your own and others the plurality you have most in common. the way pandemic pulled the curtains aside, the theater was laid bare. these reveals are a basis for planning and organising. maybe to add that this can happen in other places eg in strange English landscapes the way Justin Barton and Mark Fisher talk about the lucid eerie [ ]. but you want to also site these things in the house, in the kitchen, as a place of diy ethics and study. you want the family to be thought as a collective and what follows from that. for that to happen you have to literally pull your eyes away from spectacles of celebrity and representation, the political / cultural field. you have to actively resist the collapse of things into spectacle / specimen. the domestic is set against that. it can be the ground of oppression. but it can also be a place of opening. that is something you wanted to point to again: that radical potential. for / from contact. actually you wanted to evoke that, as something you feel: the confusion that comes from being in these situations wasiwasi which oscillate between banality and revelation. the work of documentary can be to chart that overlay, to accumulate instances of it – interference archive [ ] you are in that thing and it draws open like a long dry bracket. keep him cool, they were saying, the emergency services, you re thinking you ve lost him, an ambulance is on the way, they were saying, you re thinking how will you live now, you look into the unseeing eyes and want to be gone, it didn't arrive, you drove to casualty. come back to that glimpse into the eye of the heart, that old organ knew exactly what to do, the heart muscle starts to labour hugely so you are light headed, churning with aerated blood. you can snatch up the heavy body and run to the door that time you went to the Lizard peninsula, walking along the narrow coastal track, running out ahead of you together, that hot summer, something about the space along the cliff tops, close to the sky, thick with bracken and flowering undergrowth above the sea cliffs – on the other side, the tall flues of the mine engines, at the base, tiny shafts and tunnels where people crawled out under the sea to cut coal, the sea far below, suddenly realizing danger and shouting his name (the name you always seem to be shouting) you must make a note, Marion told you, when S was x-rayed for TB, these things slip away, these impressions, childhood passed so quickly, it was a question of making a note, how S looked like a pigeon, with his arms held up by P, he looked transparent, wearing only a nappy, it was Winter, the technician went into a glass cubicle, you had to stand in a corner of the darkened room, the apparatus approached S on the table, who was facing it, until it was close to them, where P was standing holding him, wearing a lead apron, note the contrast between the Winter clothes, the great apron of lead, and S, holding up his arms in front of the machine when you are the ones who can be there – at the demonstration, the action – what you bring in solidarity is your vulnerabilities [ ]
another thing when his brain was still young [ ], S had a febrile convulsion which was like a quiet fit which happened in the house, in the kitchen. there are these moments when you see through. in this case,it was his eyes that rolled up in his head like this un seeing and there was froth on his lips. you took hold of him in your arms and you were shouting at him and there was no response. another moment was seeing him go under anaesthetic. they had him counting carefully, then he wasn't there. these can be points of opening onto the situations of your own and others the plurality you have most in common. the way pandemic pulled the curtains aside, the theater was laid bare. these reveals are a basis for planning and organising. maybe to add that this can happen in other places eg in strange English landscapes the way Justin Barton and Mark Fisher talk about the lucid eerie [ ]. but you want to also site these things in the house, in the kitchen, as a place of diy ethics and study. you want the family to be thought as a collective and what follows from that. for that to happen you have to literally pull your eyes away from spectacles of celebrity and representation, the political / cultural field. you have to actively resist the collapse of things into spectacle / specimen. the domestic is set against that. it can be the ground of oppression. but it can also be a place of opening. that is something you wanted to point to again: that radical potential. for / from contact. actually you wanted to evoke that, as something you feel: the confusion that comes from being in these situations wasiwasi which oscillate between banality and revelation. the work of documentary can be to chart that overlay, to accumulate instances of it – interference archive [ ] you are in that thing and it draws open like a long dry bracket. keep him cool, they were saying, the emergency services, you re thinking you ve lost him, an ambulance is on the way, they were saying, you re thinking how will you live now, you look into the unseeing eyes and want to be gone, it didn't arrive, you drove to casualty. come back to that glimpse into the eye of the heart, that old organ knew exactly what to do, the heart muscle starts to labour hugely so you are light headed, churning with aerated blood. you can snatch up the heavy body and run to the door that time you went to the Lizard peninsula, walking along the narrow coastal track, running out ahead of you together, that hot summer, something about the space along the cliff tops, close to the sky, thick with bracken and flowering undergrowth above the sea cliffs – on the other side, the tall flues of the mine engines, at the base, tiny shafts and tunnels where people crawled out under the sea to cut coal, the sea far below, suddenly realizing danger and shouting his name (the name you always seem to be shouting) you must make a note, Marion told you, when S was x-rayed for TB, these things slip away, these impressions, childhood passed so quickly, it was a question of making a note, how S looked like a pigeon, with his arms held up by P, he looked transparent, wearing only a nappy, it was Winter, the technician went into a glass cubicle, you had to stand in a corner of the darkened room, the apparatus approached S on the table, who was facing it, until it was close to them, where P was standing holding him, wearing a lead apron, note the contrast between the Winter clothes, the great apron of lead, and S, holding up his arms in front of the machine when you are the ones who can be there – at the demonstration, the action – what you bring in solidarity is your vulnerabilities [ ]

Recording

09/2002. Terrace on the camp site at Sa Riera CAT, not far above the road. Breathing in sleep. Electrical storm (clipping), sometimes heard as detonations. Mechanical sounds of the Sanyo minidisk recorder from time to time.

Notes

Roger Phillips: Wild Flowers of Britain: Over a Thousand Species By Photographic Identification. Pan, Macmillan, London 1983, 1994.

Michael Baraitser: Personal communication.

'Being hungry is like being possessed by wolves.' D.W. Winnicott: The Child, The Family and the Outside World. Penguin 1957 p81. See also on holding: Adam Phillips: Winnicott. Fontana, London 1988.

Justin Barton, Mark Fisher: 'On Vanishing Land' and 'Outsights (Interview with Robin Mackay)' in Robin Mackay (ed): When Site Lost The Plot. Urbanomic 2015 p271-303. Outsights pdf

Samuel Burgum: 'This City Is An Archive: Squatting History and Urban Authority' in Journal of Urban History, 48(3), May 2022, 504–522. Pdf

Manuela Zechner:'Precarious networks and militant families' in The Imaginary Republic. Communiqué #0 To count on the uncounted. Errant Bodies Press, Berlin 2020, p58–71.