The Generative Author: Live Writing in Tartu

This May I returned, once again, to beloved Tartu for the fourth year in a row. This time I had the great pleasure of being part of the 'Opening the Black Box' exhibition, masterminded by fellow UK artists Francis Gene-Rowe and Erica Masserano. The exhibition explored themes of literary gaming in the context of causality, othering, and unbelonging, and it was all staged in the evocatively-named Hall of Love in the former widget factory which is now the Apaaraditehas cultural hub. Tasking with inserting myself and my writerly activities into this rich and playful space, I decided to resurrect 'Drafted', the event I did in my residency in Gothenburg a couple of years ago. Live writing in front of an audience.

Here, retooled and reimagined as 'The Generative Author', there was a much sharper focus on live writing as a riposte & challenge to the existential incursions of generative AI. I asked the audience to engage firstly with the exhibition and some materials I'd prepared, and then create for me some 'inputs'. I subsequently fed these into the large language model of my own brain, and used all of my messy machine learning to turn them into a story. Across the next couple of hours, with a few breaks, I projected my screen and wrote a 3000-word tale, 'Off to See Johannes' which you can find pasted below. It's a surreal piece that took plenty of guidance from the audience generated inputs, but also from the immediate surroundings. The former widget factory is now a hub of shops, bars, and galleries, but in the not-too-distant past, during Soviet times, it was a place where all manner of bits and pieces were made. The distressed walls and exposed pipes of the room gave a flavour of liminality as well as kind of folkloric aura of a more industrial era. There was also a magisterial animal presence too in the form of Apaaraditehas's resident cat, Johannes Gutenberg, who is something of a local legend (and still going strong at 14; he can usually be found outside the bookshop).

The cat and the factory were tangible elements to give the nascent story a grounding, but it needed something to help ignite lift-off. It came in the form of one of the first inputs to land in my in-tray; an elegant and poetic set of sentences that responded, with wonderful honesty and bravery, to some of the words of my introduction. It said:

"My dad is not interested in my black box brain. Only his. I wish he was more curious and open-minded."

At that point, I had no idea who had written these lines, but they grabbed me immediately. I knew that I'd been handed the opening line of the story and, with it, a pair of characters and a source of conflict and tension. Half the work was already done for me. I wrote out those lines, changed 'dad' to 'father' to give it a slightly more heightened flavour, and then I was off.

With these live writing events, of which this is the third, I always make peace with the fact that the story I write will, by necessity, meander and wander and will be under the strain of itself because I can't allow myself to stop for too long. But there's something magical in that too; the constant flow of the writing means that elements of surreality and abstraction have to be called upon to plug certain gaps. I can't sit there second guessing the writing as it goes, I have to accept and embrace what comes out and let the story find its own energy.

The story makes more sense when you can see the prompts I was given as my inputs - the pigeons and the sparrows, for example, and the cryptic codeword phrases about Los Angeles and god, as well as the concept of a corridor of colourful doors, were all features of the notecards in my in-tray. Finding places for all these ideas was one of the most fun parts. Towards the end, I asked the audience to help me make my way to a conclusion of sorts, and one very dedicated soul scribbled out a whole scene based on a picture of a door in a cave. So, when things take a particularly strange turn at the end ('I looked around the room. Something had changed'), that's what was happening. It may not make a huge amount of sense, but it makes just enough sense for the story to continue, and it meant that a lovely communal moment was temporarily forged between a reader and her author. The traditional lines of creator and consumer were playfully blurred, and I loved how it helped to bring both the story and the event to a neat close.

Huge thanks to the Opening the Black Box team, and the Prima Vista Festival Team, for supporting me with this slightly strange idea. I'll be writing some more thoughtful thoughts about it all in due course, but for now, here's the tale that my generative mind generated on that day in May in dear old Tartu:

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Off to See Johannes

My father is not interested in my black box brain. Only his. I wish he was more curious and open-minded.

I have explained to him - sometimes passionately, other times in passing - that there is a cat at the old widget factory who knows more than anyone else in Tartu. He shuts this down. There is no possible knowledge, he says, that a cat can know, that is not already known by a man.

By ‘a man’ he invariably means himself. He thinks he knows it all, and he is not interested in anything new.

And yet, that day, reclutantly, he needed a new widget for his broken cash machine and the only place to get one was at the factory. The same factory where Johannes the cat strolls the corridors with all his worldly knowledge.

“We’ll go to your factory,” he grumbled, when I suggested it. “But there will be no interaction with any cat.”

I could not contain my delight. He saw me smirking and tutted and grumbled but there was no way he could back out of it now. His livelihood depended on that cash machine, and it had been stubbornly broken for weeks.

Off we went. We followed the slow river along its many winding bends, we crossed and re-crossed the waters on the various abandoned bridges, until we reached the heart of the city. There were people around, of course, but they paid us no attention because we were of no interest to them. I tried to catch the eyes of the other children, and at one point I even tried waving at a girl my age, but it was as if we were ghosts. They looked through us, around us, beyond us - they looked anywhere else but at us, and that soon wiped the smirk from my face.

My father is the man who makes the cash, you see. That’s what he does with his machines. When he is making plenty of cash, everyone is happy. The cash goes streaming out of our house on mother’s conveyor belts, and all the people gather at the collection points to take their fair share. For years, says my father, everyone was perfectly happy with their share of his cash, and they would go to other cities with it to buy new clothes, or fresh food, or gadgets to entertain them at night. But, lately, everyone has grown suspicious of father’s cash. They say the colours of the notes have faded, almost to greyness, and the edges of his coins are not as sharp and as neat as they once were.

They’re right, of course. Ever since mother left, father has lost a lot of interest in his cash. He tries to recycle the dyes, which makes the colours less sharp, and the cutting tools for the coins have grown blunt with overuse. I do what I can to help, but my hands are small and my silly little brain (as he calls it) gets too easily distracted by other things. So, the quality of our cash has got steadily worse and worse, and then the conveyor belts stopped working, and then his machines degraded and broke, and look at us now. The people will not look at us. They’re all using bank cards instead.

But still. We really should get our last cash machine working again, and the only place we can get the widget is at the factory up the hill. Where Johannes the cat awaits us, I’m sure.

On we go through the strange old town, where people buy things with cards, and the children do not wave back. The factory is obvious; the big smoky thing at the top of the hill, its skin clad in pipes and tubes and crumbly brick. It’s no place for a cat, not much of a place for humans either, but once you’re there, and you take the right doors and corridors, and you have exactly the right kind of salmon for Johannes, then it becomes a wonderland. Fortunately for my father, I know all the right doors, all the right corridors, and, in my pocket, I have exactly the right kind of salmon. Johannes will be very pleased.

“Stop thinking about that damn cat,” my father grumbled as we arrived at the foot of the hill.

“Sorry, dad,” I said.

He grunted. We started the climb, and he had to lean heavily on my arm as the road got steeper and steeper.

“That cat couldn’t fix a cash machine, could it?” he said. “It does not know how to make money, how to make a conveyor belt, how to keep people happy. A cat can do none of that.”

“Of course not, dad,” I said.

That was a lie. Of course I thought that Johannes the cat could do all of those things, but there was not much point in angering my father now. If he flew into one of his rages halfway up the hill, we’d both end up tumbling down. But I can’t pretend that it wasn’t amusing me that, the closer we got to the widget factory, the more the cat was on his mind. I had not even mentioned Johannes today. It was all coming from him. He stopped to catch his breath.

“Of course,” he said, “you understand, I have nothing against cats generally. They’re very handsome creatures, and I am glad they have survived this long. But intelligent cats? Knowledgable cats? I’ll not have it.”

He looked up warily at the rest of the climb, at the great hulking building at the top. He seemed on the verge of saying something more. I thought, for a moment, there might have been tears coming to his eyes, but that is not so unusual this close to the factory. The smoke and the gases can really start to sting.

He did not say anything else. I moved his necktie over his mouth and nose, and did the same with mine. I thought he might bat my hand away, but he allowed it. He took my arm again, gripped it tight.

“Let’s go on?” I asked, and he nodded.

What to say about the widget factory? Well, it is where most of the men and women of the city work. They go there, they make the widgets, those little bits and pieces of funny-shaped metal that are needed for all the machines of the town. When they have made a certain amount, they are given tokens, and with those tokens they go to the collection stations and take their share of my father’s cash, which they can then use in other towns to buy their shiny new things. Well, that’s how its worked for the first twelve years of my little life, but in this last year they’ve all been walking around with their funny little bank cards. I’m not really sure how that all works.

Apparently the cash is on those cards somehow, but that doesn’t make much sense to me. Whenever I see them - which is not very often, of course - the cards seem to be too small and flimsy for holding any of father’s cash. It’s all very confusing. I tried asking Johannes about it once but… well, let’s say it is the only time Johannes has refused to answer me. Maybe (and I say this very, very, very quietly) it is the one thing in the whole world that Johannes doesn’t know anything about. And it’s that thought, more than anything else, that keeps me up at night. No, no. I’m sure Johannes does know, he’s just decided, in all his infinite wisdom, not to tell me. I guess I’m not old enough, or something.

Anyway, we soon reached the top of the hill and it was only a short walk from here to the entrance of the factory. I gave my father a few moments to catch his breath and regain his strength. I noticed that his gaze was now down at his feet rather than at the factory. He could not look at it. In fact, at one point, he turned his back on it and looked down at the city instead. This is not advisable. Whenever I look down, I get so dizzy. There’s something about seeing tiny little people going about their lives, all at the same time, that makes me feel all funny. I didn’t want father to feel the same, but he turned and he looked and he nodded a few times and stamped his cane against the ground.

“Let’s go in, dad?” I said.

“Shortly, shortly,” he said.

The entrance to the factory is this enormous glass door. It’s the fanciest bit of the place, leading into a marble lobby with all this strange moody lighting along the walls. The other kids think its the coolest place in the city, but I can’t stand it. It’s all too massive and too clean and too shiny, and those huge doors are ridiculous. They make this swish sound as they open, and there’s nothing else in our whole world that makes that particular sound. It’s too hard to describe. It’s like someone trying to skim off the surface of the river when its frozen.

I heard my father tut as we made our way inside. I don’t think he’s been in here since they made this entrance hall, and he’s certainly never heard the weird swish of the doors before. It made me happy that he didn’t like the sound either.

In the middle of the lobby there’s a huge welcoming desk which is staffed by the advisors. They’re people with bird heads. That’s the only way to describe them really. There are two types; sparrows and pigeons. The sparrows are the ones that say hello as you approach the desk, and the pigeons stand behind them by the wall saying nothing at all. Sometimes I’ll see the sparrows turning around to consult with the pigeons, and the pigeons will tilt their heads one way or the other, and the sparrows understand what that means. I really don’t like those pigeon people, and neither does Johannes. I’m not sure the sparrows like them either. But they’re always there.

I led my father toward the desk. There were three queues of people waiting to be served, so we made our way towards the shortest one.

“Ridiculous, ridiculous,” my father mumbled. I guess he hasn’t been here since the queuing started. Back in his day, you could just stroll up to the service hatch on the side of the factory and get in among the crowd. Everyone got what they needed really quick. These days you have to wait in line.

“It won’t take too long,” I said.

“Well,” he said. “Can’t we just…?”

“We have to wait.”

“I mean can’t we just…?”

He was looking around, as if he’d lost something. Looking, I realised, at the floor.

“Can’t we just what, dad?” I think I already knew what he was about to say.

“Can’t we just ask this damn cat…?”

I grinned at him.

“Wipe that smile off your face,” he said.

Johannes was not in the lobby. He was never in the lobby. Like I said before, you need to know the right doors and corridors, and you need to have the right salmon, if you’re going to get an audience with Johannes.

“OK,” I said, with as much gravity as I could put in my voice. “We can talk to Johannes.”

“Johannes?”

“The cat,” I said. “But you have to do exactly what I say, OK?”

“Now you’re the one being ridiculous. What is this nonsense?”

“Trust me, dad,” I said.

That actually made me feel a little sad, saying ‘trust me’. I’d never say that at home for fear of my father’s reaction, but he had no response today. He went quiet, and I thought he felt embarrassed in some way. I’d made him feel small, I think. But he was already feeling small. We all do in this gigantic lobby - I think that’s the point. We got to the front of the queue.

“Yes?” squeaked the sparrow.

“The world began at Eden and ended in Los Angeles,” I said.

My father looked at me, completely perplexed. The sparrow cocked its head and glanced at the pigeon behind her. This always happens. The pigeon blinked three times, then slowly nodded. This always happens too.

“Hm,” said the sparrow. “Our god thou art in heaven…?”

“Please stay there,” I said.

There was a click. A panel of the welcoming desk swung open, just a few inches. I hurried to it, opened it wider and beckoned to my father to go inside.

He glared at me, shook his head, but there was nothing he could say or do.

“Next,” said the sparrow, and my father jumped and scurried aside.

I decided to lead the way. I ducked through the open panel to the small staircase just inside, and headed down.

“Come back!” my father hissed, but I ignored him and kept on with my descent.

I reached the bottom and waited, my arms folded. Soon enough, I heard him, grumbling and muttering as he made his way down. I got a little worried that he might miss a step and lose his footing, so I unfolded my arms and peered back up the staircase to watch him. Did I see a little smile on his face? A little flicker of excitement? It was dark down here, as always, so maybe I was seeing things, but could have sworn he grinned a little.

“Where are we going?” he said, as he reached the bottom.

“This way.”

I led him on along the corridor. There are only doors in this long hallway and I’m too scared to open any except the ones that lead to Johannes, so I kept a close eye on my father as we went along. I had begun to suspect that he was getting overexcited, and I could easily imagine him opening a random door to see what lay beyond.

I got to the red door that I was looking for and went through it. Next we reached the orange door, then the yellow door, and so on through the rainbow colours, my father quickly getting the idea and searching for next colour in the sequence. Soon enough we reached the door that is dipped in the deepest shade of purple - that shade you sometimes see in the sky if you’re up all night worrying about broken cash machines. Before I opened this one, I took the salmon from my pocket. My father pinched his nose at the stench.

“I know, I know,” I said.

“This is how you find him?” my father asked.

“The only way.”

He grinned at me. A full, proper smile, like I’ve not seen in so many years.

“Let’s go,” he said.

I opened the purple door and stepped through. We entered Johannes’s palace. It’s just a room full of chairs with cushions, but where else would you find a cat? I call it his palace, and so does he. There he was, asleep on his third favourite chair. I haven’t ever found him sleeping on this particular chair. For a moment - a slightly worrisome moment - I wondered what that could mean.

“There he is, then,” my father whispered.

I crept over to him (Johannes doesn’t like to be startled) and held the salmon over his head. His little nose twitched, and I counted the seconds before he woke up. Seventeen seconds. Much longer than usual.

He lifted his head, looked at me, then looked at the salmon, then looked at my father. He blinked a few times, still sleepy of course, then he uncurled himself, stretched, sat up, and whipped the salmon out of my hand. He ate it in three quick bites. Usually it only takes two bites. But I was sure that didn’t mean anything. There was no need to be worried.

“Hi Johannes,” I said.

He purred. He narrowed his eyes, licked his lips. My father went to stroke his head, but I jumped in front of him just in time. I looked at Johannes. His eyes were wide again, glaring at my father.

“Sorry,” my father muttered. “It’s just that, when I was young, we used to stroke cats. On their heads. I’m sorry.”

“Sit down,” I said to my father.

He went to the next chair.

“No, no. On the floor.”

I joined him on the floor, and Johannes took a few paces forward so that he was at the very edge of his third favourite chair.

“Can I ask him now?” my father said.

“Wait,” I said.

Johannes spent a little while washing himself. As he explained to me once, it is not good for a cat to stay unclean after eating. There can be no answering of questions while the salmon is still settling. Soon enough, however, he seemed satisfied, and he looked at us expectedly.

“OK,” I said to my father.

My father cleared his throat. He sat up straight, composed himself.

“Johannes,” he said. “May I ask, please. The people of this city, they all use bank cards now, they do not use my cash.”

I watched my father closely as he asked this. I wasn’t quite sure where he was going, what question he was going to ask. How to make bank cards? How they work? Why the people look through us, around us, and not directly at us?

“Johannes,” he said. “How do I… how should I… how do I fix things?”

That was his question. It was so vague. Too vague. I wanted to urge him on. Fix what? Specifically? The cash machine? His outlook on life? His marriage? I looked at Johannes. His eyes narrowed, his purr deepened, and then he closed his eyes completely.

“What does that mean?” my father asked. “Is that good?”

I thought it all through. His third-favourite chair, the way he waited for seventeen seconds before waking up. And now his eyes, fully closed, as if he intended to go straight back to sleep.

I looked around the room. Something had changed.

There was a door. A new one. A very strange one. One that I had not seen before. It was shaped like an archway, and there was another archway painted on top. Strangest of all there were two - what were they? Guards? Soldiers? - painted in garish colours either side of the door’s archway. I couldn’t honestly say what job they had because I’d never seen that kind of uniform before. Weirdly-shaped hats, red coats, and some kind of weapon in white belts crossed over their chests. They had very welcoming expressions on their faces, which I took to be a good sign, but the weaponry was quite unnerving. I crawled closer. There was something else hanging in the doorway. Perhaps the strangest thing of all. By now, my father had seen it too. A sign suspended in mid-air that said ‘Go Back!’ in friendly letters.

“Yes,” my father said. “Yes, yes, of course.”

I looked at him. Tears were streaming down his face.

“What does it mean?” I asked.

“Go back,” he said. “Go back, to her.”

“To who?”

For a long, long moment I genuinely didn’t understand. I thought, absurdly, that it meant the sparrow at the front desk, because she was the only ‘her’ we’d encountered. But then my father embraced me, and I understood. It had been so long since he’d embraced me. The last time was when he came back from the fighting, wearing his red coat and his weirdly-shaped hat, and not long after that we left our mother and moved to the edge of town.

“Back to her?” I said, and I could feel him nodding, against my shoulder.

I looked, once more at Johannes. He’d curled up and fallen asleep.

The end.