Well, welcome. Thank you very much for coming. My name's Anna. I'm the Director of Lighthouse, one of the commissioning partners involved in Voices of the Sea. We're really thrilled and honoured to have the Ottoleth Group with us this evening, Kojo Eshan and Angelika Sagar. Welcome. Thank you. They are very significant voices within the contemporary art world in the UK. They've shown at galleries such as Tape Britain, the Haywoods, Nottingham Contemporary, internationally at the MACBA in Barcelona, the Biennales such as Sao Paulo. This year you were taking your work to Documenta.
And in 2010, the Otolith Group were nominated for the Turner Prize. So they've become a significant voice, I think, within our field, and we're delighted to be able to welcome them to Brighton. Their work, which some of you may have seen in exhibitions such as the British Art Show or Manifesto, as exhibited in pieces like Autolith 1, 2, and 3, or the recent film Hydro Decapita, is research-based, cross-cultural, is concerned with the notion of futurity, and often takes the form of moving image, as it does here today. The new work, I See Infinite Distance Between Any Point and Another, was commissioned by Fabrica, Lighthouse,
the University of Brighton's Faculty of the Arts, PhotoWorks, Glass Theory and Brighton Festival as part of a larger commissioning initiative, which also includes a new work by Invisible Flock, which opens on the 5th of May, an interactive sound walk that takes you along the coast of Brighton. And it was part of this Voices of the Sea initiative which Liz mentioned earlier. The piece, as those of you who have had the privilege of seeing it a little while ago, centres on a reading of Etel Adnan's poem Sea. So in that sense it's a literal evocation, if you want, of the Voices of the Sea kind of commissioning thing,
but it's a much deeper and more profound work than that. Isha Ladnin, who we were hoping would join us this evening, but sadly she can't be with us, is a major voice within contemporary literature. She's a poet, a painter, and a philosopher, currently based in Paris. She's been described as one of the most celebrated and accomplished Arab-American writers working today. We would probably say not arguably, but certainly. Not necessarily Arab-American. Not necessarily Arab-American. And a new volume of poetry, The Sea and Fog, which was published very recently, is an astonishingly evocative series of meditations on the sea.
it's full of myth, metaphor, mystery and profundity and it was the sea, one of the two pieces in the sea and fog which the piece that the Otolith Group have made for us was based on so I wonder if Kojo and Angelica if you could begin by just introducing the piece to us and talking a little bit about how it came about and what drew you to working with Atal well etel um i met uh in beirut in uh about two three years ago um uh in the house of uh some fellow artists who are um christian um come from a family of christian
lebanese and um uh for many different reasons because lebanon is a very politically complicated place. I had read some of Etel's poetry, but seeing her within this kind of environment, which is very shishi and very bourgeois, and if you know anything about the history of the civil war in Lebanon, one knows about the different factions. And I saw Etel there, and I had read some of her work, which is an absolute, one particular book, Siti Mara Rose, which is an unbelievable study on hypocrisy and violence and war from the perspective of a story of a deaf teacher who was murdered by the phalangists.
And I was just... Because I'm quite a militant, so I was like, how can you stand this environment? Have any of the people ever read your work here? because they would be so confused by your presence here. Anyway, then we met again in London at the Serpentine. She was invited to be part of Jana Graham's project on the Edgware Road at the Centre for Possible Studies. And I invited her to our home and we talked and talked and talked a lot more. And I realized that when she speaks, I realized because I've also written poetry, that there's some kind of poets who like to read and speak their poetry and others who don't.
And she's actually the one who doesn't like. She's someone who doesn't like to read in public. and she's always asked to read in public and she's always asked to represent and maintain a kind of audible voice that speaks about politics and about her position as a Lebanese and someone who studied violence and conflict but not actually represented it in an illustrated way, an illustrative way. And so I was personally, you can talk from his perspective, but I was interested in the project of listening to her close, listening to the work that she has done to not represent in an illustrative way
thought and thinking and politics and ideas. She has tried to produce, for me, a relation to enfoldment. She has produced enfoldment in her work in relation to philosophy, to politics, to life. And I was interested personally in this film being a film about audibility, about listening, and about listening not just to the poem, but to a life's work, which is about avoiding the restrictions of speaking from a position of identity, of speaking from a position of a woman, but to speak about forms of philosophical thinking
and forms of thinking about nature and geometry and life and death, which are universal. Yeah. I mean, when we decided to take on this commission, this invitation to respond to this notion of voices of the sea, we realised that we already had a number of clichés and archetypes about how to visualise the sea about how to make the sea audible so that one thing we had to do was to subtract these clichés and to find a way to somehow clear them out of the way
so we didn't want pictures of people soulfully walking along the beach in the early morning of winter we didn't want somebody trailing an index finger along a river we didn't want people we didn't want waves moodily splashing you know we didn't want in a sense we didn't want the sea in in a sense we wanted to show the sea without showing the sea. The sea has a certain metaphorical dominance in the cultural imagination, in an island nation. The sea is an over-determining force, visually, poetically. And so there's a certain sense in which you have to withdraw clichés,
you have to take them away. And so the question of how to show the sea without showing the sea became crucial to us. So then the question of poetry, a poetic meditation on the sea, is already an indirect relation. It's indirect because it's text. It's a textual relation to the sea. And then a cinematic encounter with a text is a second level of indirection. So now you have two levels away from the sea. And so it then became a question of how can you show the sea without leaving a room? How can you show the sea without leaving an interior in Paris, in an apartment in Paris, in Saint-Germain? How can you show the sea without ever leaving, without ever cutting away to a soulful shot of the sea slowly lapping,
without showing the sun setting at night? How can you do that? And so this was the question that we set ourselves. Somewhere Jean-Luc Godard says that showing somebody reading, that showing somebody reading a text is one of the most difficult things a filmmaker can do. And it's true, you realise that Hollywood spends its time avoiding reading, avoiding a body that reads. And so we set ourselves this challenge of how to show a person reading a text. And not just any person, but as Angelica pointed out, this particular poet, an 87-year-old poet. This means that the tempo of reading,
the temporality of thinking is very different to ours. So what we decided to do was to create a certain context of attention, a certain context of care, and a certain visual concentration on her expressions of concentration. So the piece started to become a study of expressions, the expressions of hands, the intelligence of the fingers. I'm sorry, could you just ask people out there to be a bit more quiet because I find it very distracting, sorry, somehow. But anyway, sorry, carry on. So the piece became a study in expressions, in what Harun Frocki calls the expressions of hands
and the gesture of intelligence. And it became a kind of a concentration upon a poetic concentration. And in this way, dialectically, we hoped to evoke the sea through our distance from the sea. The distance from the sea would invite us into a meditation on the sea if we showed the sea there'd be nothing to do the image would do it all and you would just be the image would effectively present itself and you would just be a bystander to the image this way around there was a lot for the viewer to do the viewer had to become a listener first of all and this listener is in a certain position of overhearing in a sense because uh because of the
the framing that we chose because of the the fundamental question of of a filmmaker the video maker is where do you position your frame this is a philosophical question the the relation that you choose between you and your subject is a is a philosophical question so we spent a lot of time thinking about this and we threw away a lot of footage because we didn't immediately come to to come to decisions that were correct for us. So it took a long time. It's interesting, you know, you talk about, you know, kind of how to depict the sea without the sea. Etel in her poem talks about how the ocean is near but the sea far. And I think, you know, kind of in a way, you know,
kind of you've almost invoked that within the piece. So if we return, you know, kind of for a moment to the work, it's something of a returning to the sea for Etta Ladnan herself whose first book of published poetry So we need to either close the door at the back because I don't think people can hear on it at the back We'll project this way So Etta Ladnan's first published poem was The Book of Sea and in that piece she was trying to articulate something that's been described as a cosmic eroticism between the relationship between the sun and the sea. In the recent work, Sea, it feels like her horizon is even vaster.
We read about solar winds, we read about ice plumes on Enceladus, we're taken to Venus several times. It's cosmological in its ambition. Was that vastness of scope something that drew you to this particular work? Absolutely. I mean, I'm very interested, we are very interested in writers and theorists and philosophers like Gaithra Spivak and Fred Moten. I think there's something about their work that avoids origins. And I think for me with Attelle, she kind of gives us, she for me is like a mystic that allows us to cope with, helps us to cope with the sorcery
that we are being kind of spellbound by under capitalism. Capitalism for me is a kind of force that shuts down attention to thinking, distracts us, prevents us from coming up with new ideas or interesting thoughts that are interior. It's all about spectacle, exposure, revealing. I'm interested in people that help me to find a way to avoid capture. And for me, Attell, because of her generation, has this gift. So I think of Attell more as a mystic who's casting a spell. And I think of this film as a spell.
It's a really beautiful way of putting it, because the most important thing for me personally when I was reading the poem is this notion of beginnings and endings and life and death and, again, this kind of cosmological meditation on why we're here. And I found myself being sort of drawn back to Calvino's Blood Sea, which is a short story that he wrote where we're back in the primordial soup, where we're in Genesis, in a sense. And it kind of reminded me of things which I've seen in your work before. You've dealt with this notion of the beginnings of entire new societies, and Hydro Decapita, for instance,
new life emerging out of impossible circumstances. And I wonder whether this notion of fictive creative or fictive creation myths is something that you're specifically interested in. I mean, Anna's referring to a work from 2010 called Hydra Decapita, which of course means decapitated monster. And it's quite a complex work, but one element in that work is the voice of an electronic musician called Gerard Donald, who founded an electronic music group in Detroit in the 90s called Drexia.
And in this work, we interviewed him, and we used short sections of his interviews. Gerald Donald was a composer who, with his partner James Stimson, came up with this science fiction mythology of the Atlantic slave trade. So they had a mythology which worked through all their records. So they made records between 1992 and 2002. And all their records, their albums, their CDs, their singles, were set in this fictional kingdom called Drexia, in which women who were thrown overboard during the slave trade of the 18th century gave birth to children who learned to breathe underwater. Pregnant women who were thrown overboard. And so there was this fiction of this underwater kingdom
populated by these Drexians, who were effectively amphibian mutants. And these Drexians would surface periodically, pull humans down and then do experiments on them. And so across five albums and about ten singles, everything takes place inside this world of Drexia. So it's kind of a bit like J.R. Tolkien on one hand and also a bit like Matthew Barney on the other hand. But sonically and instrumentally, no lyrics, just synthesizers. and so when we talked to Gerald Donald for this film Hydra Decapita what we did was talk about the we would I would I would tell him I would ask him what did you mean when you made
this track and I would tell him the name of the track so there was one track which had the name like wave jumper and I'd ask him what comes into your mind when you hear the word wave jumper And then he would go into these kinds of... Reverie. Yeah, he would go into these kinds of ideas which would take real-world physics, but which would accelerate them into speculative fictions about physics. Hydroportals. So he would take real-world physics, like astrophysics, like the dynamics of stars and planets, or the form of hydrogen, but he would exaggerate it. So he'd behave exactly like a science fiction writer who takes real-world science and then fictionalises it. And so it was a kind of speculative materialism
because on one hand everything was actual and physical, on the other hand everything was speculative and fictional. And Attell has something of that basis, Attell. Attell is also a kind of materialist thinker in the sense that she will talk about the sea, she will talk about the actual kind of physical matter of the sea and the actual transformations that the sea undergoes, the phase transitions of it. But then periodically she'll change perspective as well. And she'll talk about the sea from the perspective of a cosmic brain. Can I have the book? So what we're really, this is a long way around to saying that we are interested in figures who fictionalise science and figures who create
kind of new mythologies out of the science that surrounds us. And the reason we're interested in this is because these people give us a language to express the kinds of, the enigma, the enigma that science creates around us. So every scientific discovery, every scientific invention creates a new form of wonder, a new form of enigma and a new form of mystery, as well as a new form of knowledge. knowledge production equals a kind of production of enigma and certain figures certain poets certain composers certain filmmakers help us to navigate this expanded space of wonder and i think atel is one of these figures and i think gerald donald is one of these figures and this is one of the
reasons why we're attracted to to the ocean that's i mean this is very interesting because Set your microphone and point it upwards towards you. So this is something which has been spoken about a lot in regards to your previous practice. You've cited your practice within a discussion of futurity, a speculative condition that we more ordinarily associate with the genre of science fiction. And I wonder whether or not you could accept your work as almost a sort of a visual art version of science fiction or whether or not you feel that would be perhaps taking the analogy too far?
Well, I think there's no space for images in industrial cinema anymore, even though we're all consumed by them. We're not actually seeing anything. So we might think we are, but, you know, it's completely such a closed, shut down world. where the kind of, I mean, to get there, to get to make such, you know, avatar or whatever, or to get to make any film in Hollywood, which dominates Western film industry, dominates everything, everyone, you know, it's very difficult to work independently anymore. So, you know, and I absolutely believe in small acts
and small gestures and experiments because, you know, that's how we understand difference. And we understand... Oh. You see? We have a school teacher outside. That's so amazing. So, you know, I'm just, you know, talking about small independent kind of gestures, explorations, experiments with images, experiments with sound that are not driven by formats of industrial cinema. So, yes, I mean, science fiction for us is not Avatar.
For me, it's also Etel, who allows a portal into the cosmological as a process of thinking. So you've started reflecting a little bit on the form that your work takes often, which is moving image. And it's always struck me that the Autolith Group's sort of collective body of work is a very considered set of thoughts on what film culture is and what film culture could be. And this piece takes the form of the film essay. You know, kind of this is a form you've used before. What is it about film, about moving image,
that you find is such a resonant carrier for the ideas that you want to express? Kojo can answer this, but I would just say it's the most feasible. It's cheap. raw pregnant it's not actually cheap but you know cheaper cheaper and also it's like no one buys it so it's it's uncollectible even though we're trying to change that i think you might have a different view yeah no but it's harder anyway go on i think there's a certain form of thinking A certain form of image thinking and sonic thinking that becomes possible. In the tradition of the essay film that we like and that we're interested in,
there's a certain sense of working with images in order to understand what an image is. Working with images in order to reflect upon what images are becoming. Working with sounds in order to understand what a sound might be. and also working with images that can express our discontent with images. Images that have space for a kind of internal reflection upon their own condition. So some people often say that an essay film is a genre, that it has a kind of melancholic female voiceover, maybe reading letters that it has archive from the beginning of the 20th century
that it has a kind of melancholic and slightly wistful string arrangements that it has again people soulfully drifting across landscapes in slow motion that it has some footage of demonstrations and that this is a certain kind of essay film but for us An SA film doesn't have... Even though we've worked with those ideas. An SA film doesn't have to have any of these generic traits. An SA film has to find a form for a discontent. This is the key, not the generic traits. It has to have a form for your dissatisfaction with images in the form of an image. You have to play the powers of an image against themselves.
the power of an image to educate against the power of an image to oppress. These powers of education and oppression, the powers and forces that images and sounds have, you have to have a form to dramatise this struggle between the power of education and the power of exploitation of an image. You have to stage this. You have to find a form for it and you have to invent it each time from scratch. and the reason why essay films in the broad sense are useful for us is because they don't hide this struggle. In fact, this is a struggle that every filmmaker knows but for us an essay film externalises it.
It doesn't pretend it's solved this struggle beforehand. It's not like, oh, we've solved the question of what an image is, now we can make a film. No. Or a digital image from an analogue. You make the film about the struggle to understand what this image might be. So this is why Chris Marker is important to us. At the beginning of Saint-Soleil, Chris Marker is faced with this question of, he has an image of happiness, and the question is, what image should follow this? This is the question. And he has an image, and it's the wrong image. He has the image of an aeroplane coming up on an aeroplane carrier on a ship. It's a warplane. Yeah, and he says, this is the wrong image. It's an irresolvable connection. So this question, and this is a question that everybody knows, what image should follow another image?
But when I saw Saint-Soleil, this was the first time I'd seen somebody make the work out of the struggle to make the work. Maybe there are many other films that do this, but for me, this was a profound moment because it suddenly crystallised all my anxieties. I thought I had to solve image making before I could make any images. I didn't realise you could make the image out of the struggle. And to me, this is the essayistic mode. The essayistic mode foregrounds this. And this is extremely helpful to a certain kind of artist who can't resolve this question, but who is continually confronted by it over and over again in different ways.
You've spoken a couple of times as we've been talking about this notion of discontent. And at the beginning of the conversation, we touched on politics. A political consciousness, I think, runs through all of your work and, of course, through all of Ittel's work as well. And early on in C, Etel describes Egypt and Syria, two nations which are going through enormous amounts of upheaval, quite evocatively as lands of the accumulated ferocious secretions that we name history. an extraordinarily efficient way of describing the difficulty of approaching
what's going on in that region right now. Were you thinking about the shifting tides of geopolitical discontent as you were making this work? Or was the choice to work with SL a way of actually, as you were saying earlier, Angelica, moving away from those almost heavy-handed identity political questions? Yeah, I mean, I've spent a lot of time in the Middle East and I've spent a lot of time in Beirut with a lot of the Lebanese artists and there's a kind of, you know, the conceptual kind of work coming out of Beirut is kind of interesting but there's a kind of sanitized conceptualism that goes along with it
and of course one can study the class relation there and all the rest of it. And it's interesting enough. But for me, I'm always looking for dirt and darkness and horror and pain. And somehow, you know, I'm looking for ways to, when I'm meeting artists from these places and everywhere that I travel, I'm interested in artists who have somehow done kind of a little bit like made work. in a way that someone like Michael Haneke has in terms of the way that he deals with violence without showing violence. And so not to kind of turn it into a sanitized frame
on a gallery wall, but to invoke and to evoke transformation in some way. And for me, Etel does that. She has this ability to return us to our kind of physical, elemental being. So that's why in the film we were interested in... Because we use these images. I don't know if many of you have seen it. I urge you to try and see it. It's also not in the condition of an opening because you can't hear the film properly. But we were interested in... She let us in to her world.
We were seven days in her apartment in Paris, and we were filming everything. And she's a friend, but still, she's 87. And we have three guys there with lights and equipment and blah, blah, blah. And then, because I was thinking, if we're going to put images to her words, you know there has to be some kind of politics within this relation that allowed that says you know we we can do that and for me that was um her you know allowing us in and her saying that there's no connection between one verse and another and so i was not interested in we were not interested in producing images that went along with the words of the ocean or this and that you know we were
interested in these kind of two elemental forms in a way of natural geometry and man-made geometry and almost these opposing kinds of forces. As I said before, for me, Attal releases us from this position of identity and provincialism and parochialism and allows us to think in a more universal way which allows for more for for the potential of cosmopolitanism to exist which is for me much more interesting than the kind of closure which we're experiencing now. I mean the question of the Arab Spring the question of the revolutions taking place in Egypt in Syria and Tunisia it's a
a crucial question but the questions that weighed on us in this project were much smaller and also much more non-linear questions. Maybe one way to illustrate this is that around two-thirds of the way through there's a very short section of music and it's by a composer called Mohammed Issa and it's a kind of lament for the death of Shea Guevara from the early 70s and this was from an album of laments to Shea Guevara that Atel and her partner Simone play to us when we first when they first invited us to their apartment. The whole album is songs about
Sheikh Abara from the Middle East. And so including this short section was a way to say that there was a moment in the early 70s where there was an Arab politics which linked up to those kinds of new left politics, regardless of whether we know it or not. So that when you hear that moment now, precisely because none of us either know that moment nor can decipher the voice or the words of that moment, there is still a sense in which this song, which comes from the past, actually comes from the future. Because it's a song that we had no awareness of or understanding of. We had very little sense that the Guevara,
Che Guevara moment extended into the Middle East, and that there were Arab militants who understood themselves to be on the side of Che Guevara. And so this is like a very small allusion to, let's say, a tradition of militant struggle in the kind of Arab regions, which in a way was a kind of a very faint allusion to the present. But for us, the question of filmmaking is a question of non-linearity. we have great respect for documentary filmmakers and activist filmmakers like many of our friends who make work that respond to the moment
and that create images and sounds that kind of convey some of the atmosphere and the context and the struggles of the present we think this is extremely valuable but for us we are drawn to non-linearity so for us the question of how to depict the politics of the present always takes a detour in other words what if in order to make sense of the present in order to make sense of the political struggles of the present what we have to make visible are images from another time and another place that seem to have nothing to do with the present but in fact do what if one way that art
differs from social media or differs from television or differs from featured documentaries is in constructing non-linear relations to the present in other words art is not very good at being present to the present artists are not very good at rushing to the scene of a struggle and bringing back the news there are many other forms that are better suited for doing that Should be. Yeah, and this is their value. So in an ecology of media in which other mediums are very good at being present, are very good at being first, at being there quicker, then the question of what art can do, we think, rests on its ability to construct a non-linear relation.
So then the question of filming an 87-year-old poet in her apartment, which seems to be very far from images of struggle on the streets. What if there is a relation, but this relation is in no way a self-evident one? It's a relation that has to be constructed and reviewed moment by moment. I want to end by perhaps asking a related question. the sea in a way could be understood as something of a universal home for exiles, you know, and that's certainly how me as one of them, you know, kind of thinks of it, and as Ednan says we spend a lifetime loving it exclusively
because we can't change the world, which is a really interesting take on, you know, kind of the metaphor of the sea this piece that you've made here is part of a trilogy of works about the sea we've talked about Hydro Decapita we've spoken a little bit about this piece here I wonder if you could end by talking about the final chapter of the trilogy which perhaps starts touching on some of the issues you've just raised well the final chapter we're going to Tokyo on Monday to make a new work relating to the, well, I mean, we're not documentary filmmakers, but we're interested in Japan as an island nation as well,
a warring, very powerful nation as well, you know, like Britain used to be, which has lived with the notion of, well, has lived with the reality of both the idea of atoms for killing and atoms for peace. so they have managed a relation to both Hiroshima and the wholesale of kind of cheap technology of nuclear power by the very people who sold them atoms for killing or dropped on them these atoms for killing which killed them so they are the only kind of space in the world which has dealt with both
and we're kind of interested in their management of their proximity to the nuclear power industry but also to radiation as an everyday reality. For us, the sea in this way, the reason, of course, was the tsunami that we became interested there because, of course, nature there is... Japan suffers more natural disasters than any other place in the world. And the sea there is absolutely imminently looming and dangerous. And so for us, the sea is there. The tsunami is 50 foot high, the wave.
And it sits all around Japan. And it exists as a force of potential natural destruction. So we don't know yet what we are going to do with this idea, but there's many ideas that we are... Because when we think about making new work, we think about particular forces that we are interested in producing, and these eventually produce image relations. So we can't say that it's going to be about... I mean, there are many ways to think about this. The convergence of the earthquake, the Great Tohoku earthquake on the northeastern coast of Japan, the tsunami, and then the meltdown of the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear power plant
is a kind of convergence of three catastrophes. Apparently, the Great Tohoku earthquake, which registered 9.0 on the Richter scale, was such that it actually changed the geographical position of Japan. And it was enough, apparently, to actually change the axis of the Earth between 10 to 25 centimetres, which I find kind of an astonishing idea that seismic forces have that degree of power. and so the question of how one makes visible invisible forces not so much forces of destruction as in the earthquake and the tsunami
because as Anjali points out there's a certain sense in which Japanese people are at home with a kind of abnormality of disaster but there's a certain sense in which it is very difficult for any nation to integrate a radioactive disaster. And for us, there's a certain sense in which Fukushima is a new kind of catastrophe. So Chernobyl was always understood as a death sentence for communism. Hiroshima and Nagasaki were always understood as a moment of absolute trauma. and everybody could agree on that. But this moment is a catastrophe for capitalism, actually.
And this is why for us, it's been quite difficult for us to begin to understand the implications of Fukushima here in the UK because we think that Japan and the UK and France and America all constitute a global nuclear regime. and in a sense what we want to see is what happens when that nuclear regime turns on its citizens and threatens the life of its citizens and asks its citizens to put up with a degree of threat. So a form of power which threatens the biological citizenship of people but people are asked simply to suffer that. And so part of it is to, as Anjali says,
is to study how people manage this crisis. And part of what is fascinating about Fukushima is the normality of it. So it's not a spectacular crisis as the other ones we've mentioned are. And there's a sense in which there is a normality which cannot be visualized in a spectacular sense. And so it fits our interest in the anti-spectacular and in the work of producing the normal. The thousands of gestures and practices that go into constituting everyday life in a world that is threatened by a toxic present and a toxic future.
But I'm not going to go into it further because it would be really nice to get some responses. But I think the other thing, what nuclear power constitutes is the collateral by which the lesser evil is performed in global politics and in the regime of power as we understand it now. The logic of power works with the notion of the lesser evil. So how war is produced. We all kill these many people. We all allow this much to happen. This is how good is produced, how the good is maintained, produced. So for us, the collateral is more than anything else, more than the idea of the Muslim Islamic Al-Qaeda terrorists, is that we all need to be protected from, is nuclear power.
So there's a hysterical, schizophrenic world that we live in right now, and it's invisible, right? It's invisible. So that's kind of why we're interested in this as well. But it would be really, I think, nice just to... Well, I'd like all of you to join me in thanking Kojo and Angelica very much. I think they want to see the film. So please help me in thanking them for being with us today, but also for giving us such a wonderful insight into their practice. Thank you. Thank you for coming.