We decide to make a demonology, and ask friends of ours around the world to help us write it. We take a list of titles we have collected for possible works, and use them to as a starting point for a series of paintings. We begin to prepare for our 10th birthday, and put together It's Not a Competition an e-book of all the applications we have ever written.
We run a choreography course by post in which we encourage people to quit the field of professional dance. We begin to obsessively track our working hours in order to meticulously calculate how we our work is institutionally remunerated. We make a performance for office spaces in arts organisations, full of head-banging and techno and disco-lights. We grow increasingly entranced with a linoprint series of angry little faces; at first we call them 'friends', later we call them 'demons'.
The pandemic hits. We finish our video series that exhaustively explains the relationship between 'Practice' and 'Theory' to kids; and write Ghosting.zip, a digital zine about haunting/haunted institutional spaces. We decide to commit to maintaining a material studio practice and award ourselves a series of 'home residencies'. We start a PhD at Sadlers Wells Theatre.
We start to have quarterly 'away days'. We have a nice time on residency at a big dance house in Germany. They lend us bicycles and it's very sunny. We run a two day workshop in which people dress up as ghosts and haunt an arts organisation. It breaks our hearts. We go straight to a dance festival where we perform our work This: it becomes a furious battle with the international cohort of delegates, programmers and curators. To combat this marketisation of the festival, and make a bridge to the local visual arts scene, we put on a solo-exhibition with a local artist-led gallery, four/four. Nobody from the festival attends.
We organise a night of performance to present out new performance This at a corporate-feeling space in East London. The evening is lit beautifully by the sunset and a friend described it 'like nothing else in London'. We celebrate our fifth year of working together. We invite lots of friends and collaborators around to celebrate two of our zines and eat some food. We look around the room – it is full of weirdos, loners, misfits – and think "these are our people."
We organise an evening to perform our work Some Possibilities. Tired of administration, and pessimistic about our ability to spread the word, we spend an afternoon filming Rohanne drop a series of objects and call it It's Out of Our Hands. People tell us they love it. We set up an independent radio station called Radio Play and invite our friends to send in material. On the first broadcast we recite John Cage's Lecture on Nothing.
We make our first good performance, Empty Gestures, in which we learn and synchronously perform a long series of hand gestures we find on the internet. A friend rushes up to us after our first performance, aghast, to tell us that we each perform the work in an entirely different quality. We decide that we don't mind.
A drunk theatre producer in a bar offers us our first residency: a week in a theatre in Ipswich. It's the first time we're working together without having anything in particular we need to make. We end up making a series of short videos we call Meaningless Dances. We also make a video work called Open/Close: when we screen it, two men argue with each other about whether or not we are a couple.
We write, print and circulate a programme for a fake venue at the Edinburgh Fringe. Across the year, we work at distance from one another on a series of text pieces called Attend – a collection of ambiguous prompts for audiences and readers – which we present at cabarets, mix-bill evenings and group exhibitions in Edinburgh and London.
We join a group of art students to take over of a former JobCenterPlus. We make Office Simulation Space – our first piece with just the two of us – in which we busy ourselves in a small room only visible through a window with Venetian blinds. We ask all the other performers in the evening to occasionally to take a break, and join us in gathering around a full kettle of water and silently watching it boil.