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The People Who Share

Screenwriter and artist Lucy Pawlak pens the continuing mystery of The Lost Beat Officer, who was once a hybrid agent cerebrally connected to a global archive of big data.



Uniform of Dorothy Officer

Uniform of Dorothy Officer. Image courtesy Dorothy Truth Lab Technology.


This isn’t about the future or the past.

From now on we’ll be in the present all the time.

Right here, right now.

I clear my throat.

I shrug my shoulders.

I tug at my T-shirt, pulling it up like I’m looking for something under there.


OK, so, in the present I mind my own business. I push on, eyes to the pavement. But I can’t help seeing the cracks, and there’s evidence of a plague of chewing gum having recently rained down.

I shake my head: “No.”

I shrug my shoulders: “ Whatever.

I clear my throat.

I clear my throat. Tug at my t-shirt, lifting it a little.

Sure, I use up time and space on hating the seasons, the city and the parasites populating it, but I try not to cause any harm. I do my best not to show up on anyone’s radar. The real trick is to disappear. I quietly take advantage where I can. Or at least that’s what I was trying  to do, until this Tuesday, a thousand years ago tomorrow, on a cemented grey March morning, when the world shifted and re-formed around an event.


Right, so it starts when I find someone’s made an intervention and peppered my journey to work with three tagged words: WE US OUR . On my flat, the pavement, the road, down escalators, onto the train, up escalators, onwards into the lift, right up to my studio door: WE US OUR . Over the next days, the tags intensify forming dense, messy scrawls of words upon words: WE US OUR WE US OUR . I feel a tension, a need to run; I jerk my head like a chicken trying to glimpse something just out of view. Something I can’t see, on the other side of a wall casting a shadow, pressing in on me. The surfaces upon which the words are scrawled seem ready to fissure and crack open.


Then, a week later and all at once, the writing’s stripped off and perfectly painted over. What army could have performed this colossal operation, making it all sparkly new, magically erased? You don’t get anything clean without getting something else dirty…

Now there’s only one instruction on one white wall remaining: LOOK UP , and when I do there’s a biplane trailing a message: “Listen, just pull out the top right drawer of your desk and reach inside, OK?”

I tap my nose many times, brush my lip, blink, shrug, hum, and then I’m shrugging, blinking and humming all at once.


I say to myself: “OK… You’re a curious guy, you like to solve things, like to put things right, like to help, you have a strong sense of duty, that’s why you trained to be a policeman…”


Now I’m talking to You , the reader: “Look here, listen. I’d better fill you in with a bit of backstory. My name’s Lost, but what people call me is something else again, I’m Beat Officer or maybe just Beat, because these days I’m an artist, not a cop.”

And I’m still talking to You; I’m sharing more, despite being quite a private guy: “You remember when the Dorothy Interface was first launched, right? 2019… A global mass-surveillance policing tool set in motion… The dream of a world without crime made real…? OK, so because I can’t hear your answer, here’s a refresher broken down to four points which you might need to read twice on account of it being quite complicated. There’s also a TED talk, you can watch it here .

  • Dorothy Officers are hybrid agents cerebrally connected to a global mass surveillance archive of big data, a cloud.
  • When a Dorothy Officer arrives on a crime scene, the cloud begins a conversation with the officer’s thoughts, generating relevant forensic information that’s fed from the global database into the officer’s mind. We’re talking: DNA samples, fingerprints, weaponry, telecommunications, shopping lists, and so on.
  • So, the basic idea is that Dorothy collaborates with her agents at the scene of a crime to visualise a chain of activity or a backstory, if you like, relating to a specific incident.
  • This backstory — this history of objects and their traces — actually, physically and materially appears in the Dorothy Officer’s field of vision while they’re standing right in front of the criminal act that’s been committed. Of course, an officer can’t actually pick anything up; the things they see are ghost-objects, accomplices haunting the conclusion of a criminal act.

Diagram outlining Dorothy Node Operating System

Diagram outlining Dorothy Node Operating System. Image courtesy Dorothy Truth Lab Technology.

It was a little traumatic actually.

I clear my throat. Touch my nose. Shrug.

I tell you that I’ll always be proud of having been one of the first officers in the flagship trials of this interface linking brain to cloud… But I also admit there were teething problems, they hadn’t done enough tests…

I say: “The thing about my collaboration with Dorothy, or what made it “ special”, if you like, was that somehow when she and I worked together we got very drawn to the unsolved crime section in the database… Internationally, that was a very conflicted area, bursting with the kind of messy traces that governments preferred to forget, or else delete — ruptures in official versions, discrepancies in cases that had been “tied up”; and most officers, well, they tended not to go there.

It doesn’t matter where I am while I’m telling you all this. You don’t need to know. I won’t describe it or even mention if I’m sitting or standing; I say: “So… on our daily beat, Dorothy and I began to pull up the ghosts of this trash heap of inconvenient truths, and pretty soon walking through town was like wading through waste, a landfill site of international injustices, the traces of actions: fingerprints, blood splatters, torn tights and broken glasses, locked suitcases and piles of money all over unmade matrimonial beds, the incense of burnt tires and forlorn flip–flops snaking up from damp trash pyres. Dead crow, dead cat, squashed rat, cow in the road, dog in the road, hole in the road, dead dirty baby in 16 bits in the road. And patterns were mapping onto everything, and it was all connected like some network of flight paths. We were learning to see the invisible things, the secrets, the silenced. Initially I thought… Well… I wanted to tell the world, blow the story wide open, only I didn’t want to get it wrong… Sometimes I wonder, maybe I should have…”

I clear my throat.

I shrug my shoulders.

I tug at my T-shirt, pulling it up like I’m looking for something.

“But ultimately, whistle-blowing didn’t feel like the right choice, you know? So, instead, I elected to reflect upon the traumatic scenes of injustice and impunity I’d witnessed through making art and holding public workshops.”




Lost Beat Officer

Lost Beat Officer, documentation of missing evidence.


And now I’m in a different location, standing up, waving my hands and explaining to you that I believe, I know, I feel  that one of the major responsibilities of artists (and the idea that artists have responsibilities may come as a surprise to some) is to help people not only get to know something with their minds but also to feel it emotionally and physically. By doing this, art can mitigate the numbing effect created by the glut of information we are faced with today, and motivate people to turn thinking into doing.


Speaking very fast now, I say: “So, like I told you, I’m no longer employed by the Police. If the current protocols for Dorothy Officers had been operating back then, I’d never have been accepted onto the program… Like I said, I’m an artist now… Like I said. Of course, as you might imagine, my art’s inspired by the malfunction in my Dorothy node — the unsolved crime section of the database… The sculptures I make act as double agents, attacking from the inside, seeping into the consciousness of those greedy murderous fuckers, the 1%, the elite, the impune, the people above the law. I create clay models of missing evidence and then sell them on the art market with the intention of contaminating the homes of the rich. I donate a generous percentage of the proceeds to the Committee to Protect Journalists[01].

Lost Beat Officer

Lost Beat Officer, documentation of missing evidence.


On a park bench looking out at the sea, I lean in towards you conspiratorially: “I’m telling you all this because I want to be transparent about who I am… The fact that I’m an insider and an outsider at once. I think that sheds light on why I was contacted by these people, whoever they are, via the graffiti, the biplane. Being an artist combined with the whole independent-vigilante-ex-cop thing makes me the perfect choice. The training gives you a certain discipline. A lot of things were drummed into me at the academy. I perform technical surveillance counter-measures on a regular basis. I stay in a lot of motels. I’ll always spend a good half-hour checking the room: windows, behind doors and under beds, tapping walls, feeling for wires and bugs; you can never be too careful. I’m permanently on lockdown; I’m not about to get DOXXED[02] .


So, after the plane dragging the message telling me to look in my desk and then the various chats with you, I arrive at my studio, I close the blinds and stand there in the middle of the room giving the top right drawer a long hard stare, the ceiling fan spinning above me. I love my studio; it’s mine, I treasure my time there, I love the way the light comes in, the way it fills the room, the way it changes through the day. I think everyone should have a studio. While I’m there, I might work the clay, go over ideas, write lists, make plans, and occasionally I might even invite people over for studio visits and art crits[03]

I blink.

I shrug.

I cough.

I’m inhaling and exhaling quite hard, standing in my space, which I now know has been invaded.

I clear my throat: “Huh? Huh? Faster than you, you fuckin’ son of a… I saw you comin’. I’m standin’ here. You make the move. You make the move. It’s your move. Huh? Don’t try it, you fuck. You talkin’ to me? You talkin’ to me? You talkin’ to me?  Well, then who the hell else are you talking — You talking to me? Well, I’m the only one here. Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to? Oh yeah? Huh?”

I stand for a long time, just thinking about the intrusion. I inspect the drawer from every angle, I dust for prints, take photos and finally, holding my breath I quickly pull it out.

I step back, step forward, peer in, and there, stuffed to the back is an embossed card: “The Rest of Us are delighted to INVITE you to…”

But the last part’s scratched out. Someone wants me but they’re playing hard to get.

Lost Beat Officer, documentation of workshop on rematerialising missing evidence, Whitstable Biennial, clay sourced in South East England.

Lost Beat Officer, documentation of workshop on rematerialising missing evidence, Whitstable Biennial, clay sourced in South East England.


There in the street a female passer-by (broken nose, floral dress, poppies or tulips maybe) taps me on the arm. “Excuse me, you dropped this,” she says pressing a fountain pen into my hands. Before I have a chance to explain that she’s mistaken, she’s gone. When I try it later the ink’s clear.

What follows is a trail of clues and puzzles. I won’t bore you with the details; suffice to say there’s invisible ink. Morse code, mirrors, encrypted archives, secret servers and a mysterious individual or collective called The Rest of Us. The final stages consume almost all my time and involve tuning into long wave frequencies at specific hours to receive strings of numbers requiring decoding.


Now I’ve got a key, which I’m turning in the door of a lock-up storage space.

Blink, blink, cough, swallow, open door, blink.

Inside there’s just this tiny, perfect model of a tower block of flats with one apartment lit up. It’s pretty clear that I’ve reached the end of the trail, that I’ll find The Rest of Us there in that room.


I go home to “walk” the streets of the city via the medium of Pegman, the yellow Google Maps street view avatar. It takes a few days to track down the block, but finally I’ve got it.

Lost Beat Officer, documentation of sale of rematerialised missing evidence by eBay Auction.

Lost Beat Officer, documentation of sale of rematerialised missing evidence by eBay Auction.


So, I’m jogging through Tarkovsky-esque[04] ganglands of burning, floating trash islands in pools of stagnant oily water, fringed by moss-eaten, creeper-clad car wrecks, illuminated by blinking semi-shot out street-lights. And then finally, I’ve found it and I see that who ever built the model in the lock-up was obsessional: same cracks, same stains, same light in the same window.

I ascend, I rap hard and confidently upon what I know must be the corresponding door. Cough, shrug, shrug, tug clothes.

I clear my throat.

I clear my throat.


The door opens and I’m looking down upon a woman with a wizened, walnut head; she looks up at me gravely. Smells of hairspray, stewed onion and turmeric hang in the air around us, behind her I glimpse soft furnishings in pink and mauve, lace curtains, doilies. I clear my throat, tug my T-shirt and look at the floor where a Persian cat is making figures of eight around the little lady’s legs. I’m thinking about her slippers, two fluffy white rabbits…

“You must be Lost,” she says. I draw back, assuming the address is wrong, I’m sprung so tight I’ve forgotten my own name. She frowns, suddenly cautious, and asks: “You do call yourself Lost don’t you?” I’m nodding, “Good, right. So I’m Precious.” She inclines her head towards the pink interior, inviting me in.

Even as I’m entering I’m starting to form questions, but Precious holds up her hand. “I’ll get you some tea first,” she says and motions for me to sit on the dirty-peach velveteen sofa.

As she pads into the kitchen, as she decants an ochre liquid from a giant stainless steel urn into a tiny stainless steel cup, I hunt for traces of evidence of her involvement in the graffiti action…

I break off.

She re-enters the room to set the cup on a crocheted coaster; I sink into the sofa, she sits opposite me. Silence. I focus on the brocaded roses twining over her organza sari; I sip the scalding hot, horribly sweet, salty and dense liquid; I imagine the tea has been stewing and refining for many days.

Lost Beat Officer, documentation of workshop on rematerialising missing evidence, Whitstable Biennial, clay sourced in South East England.

Lost Beat Officer, documentation of workshop on rematerialising missing evidence, Whitstable Biennial, clay sourced in South East England.

Precious speaks: “I have information for you. You wonder why I picked you, but I didn’t. You did. I’m asking you to communicate what I’ve done because of what you’ve done. Because you’re an artist, because you’re very aware of the threat that state surveillance systems pose for democracy, because you’ve worked at the front line.

And I believe you want to put things right.

I’m part of a group. You’re part of it too, you just don’t know it yet. We’re The Rest of Us , the part of no part, the dissatisfied and disenfranchised.”

I’m playing with the tassel on the corner of a cushion. It’s nice and silky; I imagine it as a faceless head with long braided hair. I arrange the hair in different styles as she continues.

“Contemporary capitalism is bent on purely financial and commercial practices that benefit the 1%. Some of The Rest of Us are employed by this elite, as accountants, consultants, culture workers, food and health providers, and so on. More of The Rest of Us are unemployed or under-employed; we offer services; we’re required to smile, care, communicate and be friendly. We don’t get paid much, we hope for a tip. Meanwhile every time we go online, we produce for someone else, creating data that others claim to own. Our collective actions create the elite, the 1%.”


She’s standing, asking: “How might communicative capitalism’s formulation of the technologies of the Internet and the sharing economy be repurposed for socialist ends?” She wonders if the same might be done to wealth, which is the force that most readily influences all interests and consequently is far more real and more likely to be obeyed than anything else.

I shift nervously, not quite sure if I’m expected to respond, not knowing the answer. I’m relieved when she reveals these are rhetorical questions, questions that caused two strands of thought to twine together in her head, leading her to initiate a plan to use sharing economy apps to pay  The Rest of Us, to revolt. She tells me: “So, I started to play around with a project that responded to this concept, and… This is the part that you may at first find hard to accept… It’s called UBER.”

Lost Beat Officer, documentation of workshop on rematerialising missing evidence, Whitstable Biennial, clay sourced in South East England.

Lost Beat Officer, documentation of workshop on rematerialising missing evidence, Whitstable Biennial, clay sourced in South East England.


OK another small aside — of course you know about UBER, I mean, it is the service industry; it has a total monopoly. What you might not know is its origin. It was launched in 2009 as a peer-to-peer transportation service with the motto: “Get a ride with a push of a button”… Today UBER doesn’t only provide rides. It caters for every need, offers every service; wherever you are in the world, if something is being done for you, you can be sure it is being done by robots or else humans working under the umbrella of UBER.


I can’t help it. I snort, I laugh. “ You founded UBER? But everyone knows it was the brain-child of two North American start-up guys trying to hail a cab in the snow in Paris.”[05]

She’s smiling patiently, she speaks with a twinge of what might be condescension: “ I am Travis and Garrett[06], it’s important my identity as founder remains secret if this project’s going to be accomplished.”

I raise an eyebrow.

I knit my brow.

I clear my throat. She continues: “There’s almost nothing to connect me to UBER, only a few private jokes. For example, that “ Reliable as Running Water” slogan[07]? It’s an ironic wink to my origins. I’m from Bengaluru[08], one of the first cities to dry up and fall victim to the water mafias…”

I’m shrugging, clearing my throat and frowning, screwing up my mouth like a cat’s ass to demonstrate I’m trying hard to understand.

She’s telling me that she understands that a white, male, English, middle-aged, small-towner may have trouble with the idea of someone like her founding and developing a multi-national, multi-trillion-dollar company.

I’m watching the Persian cat.

Lost Beat Officer, documentation of workshop on rematerialising missing evidence, Whitstable Biennial, clay sourced in South East England.

Lost Beat Officer, documentation of workshop on rematerialising missing evidence, Whitstable Biennial, clay sourced in South East England.

She says: “But, please, we don’t have much time, if you could just try to trust me.”

I’m extending my arm towards the cat, rubbing index finger and thumb together. She frowns a quick little frown.

“Right…” she says. “Actually, the best proof of my identity can be found in our first point of contact: the graffiti phase. Because, how could I, at my age, achieve that kind of density of tagging over a few days? Let alone the clean-up operation — explain to me how it could have been done without an army of… Let’s say… UBER employees?

She blinks plainly, simply and frankly.

I see an innocent woodland animal holding a nut in a dewy green glade. “OK fine, I believe you,” I say. “Please, go on, tell me what you want from me.”

She exchanges a smile with the Persian cat. She closes her eyes, inhales, exhales, opens her eyes and accepts with a nod.

“Okey-doke” she says, “Okey-doke, here goes. Our press release mentions UBER was founded on a grand vision of bringing people together  and that’s actually a neat summary of everything. I’m concerned with inequality. I believe neoliberalism is an architecture that derives its strength from fracturing society, eliminating the potential of The People as a collective force. Basic human relations have been compromised; all that remains is the pursuit of self-interest, the desire to be king of one’s own skin, we’re a useless army of little anarcho-entrepreneurs, active only as individuals. I believe the Internet, the technologies of communicative capitalism have tapped into and groomed these vile, vain tendencies in ourselves and voila , we’ve landed in the wrong future. We’re caught in a conspiracy of distraction, suspended narratives stuck on repeat, self-reflexive cycles of drive that give us just the right measure to keep on chasing our tails, and meanwhile cash rules everything around us.”

I take a mental note: update website, CV, personal statement, social media profiles.

Lost Beat Officer, documentation of workshop on rematerialising missing evidence, Whitstable Biennial, clay sourced in South East England.

Lost Beat Officer, documentation of workshop on rematerialising missing evidence, Whitstable Biennial, clay sourced in South East England.

“In light of the times we live in — that is, times in which some crackpot half-baked conception of ‘individual freedom’ has trampled all over any last trace of communal sense — in light of these times, I began to imagine new strategies for bringing the communist horizon into the foreground. These strategies wouldn’t require old-school collective action — people are too self-absorbed to get involved in anything like that now. In light of all that, I founded UBER, with the intention of paying oblivious individuals to partake in an unconscious collective action that would lead to a global communist revolution.”

I’m struggling: “Think! Think! Pay attention!” But I don’t understand, don’t get it, nope… I’m nodding: “Mmmm, yes, quite, I see.” She scrutinises me, perhaps wondering if she has made a mistake picking me: “OK, I’ll start again.” She speaks slower: “ Mer-cen-ary is the old word for private military contractor, at their most euphemistic these organisations are called Security Services. They have names like Black Rock, Triple Canopy[09] and GK Sierra.”

I clear my throat.

She speeds up, sensing an interruption: “I founded UBER with the ultimate aim of hiring an army of mercenaries to perform a global communist revolution. The important difference is that each individual contractor that UBER hires is a truly minuscule cog in a gigantic network of contractors, UBER is a global corporation with billions of human employees as well as thousands of robot employees in every city in the world… Which means that no individual has to do anything that actually seems violent.” She pauses and smiles self consciously before delivering her punch line in a small, calm voice: “So, it’s been possible for each employee to remain ignorant of their role in the overthrow of capitalism… But obviously they’ll love it when they find out, because who doesn’t hate capitalism?”

Now I’m looking out of the window because Precious has used the past tense when talking about her employees’ actions. I spy a plume of smoke rising up over there in the city centre.

Precious spies me spying the plume and says: “Yes, the revolution has  started. Right now, all around the world, oblivious individuals are performing an interconnected web of small tasks: dropping things off, connecting wires, parking vehicles. Self-driving cars, smart home devices and gadgets are powering up. There’s a button in the kitchen that I pressed while I was getting your tea.”

Lost Beat Officer, documentation of workshop on rematerialising missing evidence, Whitstable Biennial, clay sourced in South East England.

Lost Beat Officer, documentation of workshop on rematerialising missing evidence, Whitstable Biennial, clay sourced in South East England.

I’m stroking the velveteen sofa. The cat watches, possibly jealously. Precious speaks: “‘When you have to decide to do something, always do what will cost you the most,’ said Simone Weil[10]… Well, it was certainly expensive.” She titters.

I’m glancing out of the window, now there are two plumes of smoke…

I clear my throat.

I clear my throat.

I shrug my shoulders.

I tug at my T-shirt pulling it up like I’m looking for something.

I shrug my shoulders.

There is a long silence into which I shrug, cough and tug.

She says: “No questions? Aren’t you wondering what UBER and I have actually done?”

I’m nodding my head: “Oh, yes.” She continues: “There has to be a fundamentally terroristic element in any attempt to embody the idea of communism. We’re in the process of an attack from the inside, a massacre of the 1% and their relations — that means their familial, business and governmental associates. All dead .”

“And what about the day after the revolution?” I ask, remembering that question from some podcast I’d heard in my studio.

She looks relieved. A good question then, finally.

“The day after the revolution we will see the resolution of contradictions amongst the people! We will see the political construction of new collective configurations! We will see the redistribution of wealth! And instead of relying on humans it will all be driven and directed by the infallible, selfless machine-learning algorithms we’ve been refining over the past decade. AI technologies similar to those contributing to judicial process will enforce and maintain an incorruptible communistic structure of governance.”

Her eyes are glittering; she’s pleased. The Persian cat is upon her lap kneading and purring.

Lost Beat Officer, documentation of workshop on rematerialising missing evidence, Whitstable Biennial, clay sourced in South East England.

Lost Beat Officer, documentation of workshop on rematerialising missing evidence, Whitstable Biennial, clay sourced in South East England.

“But another 1% will just take over,” I say, suddenly wanting to deflate her.

“Ha! You don’t think I’ve already thought of that? It’s simple: if things regress back, the same UBER facilitated revolution will be set in motion. And every time a 1% starts to rise up, the revolution will restart again and again.”

She laughs for a while and then looks serious: “I’ve been worrying a little though, I mean there’s a chance that a 1% could keep on popping up until there couldn’t be a 1%, like if only 99 people were left on the planet or something…”

“Wow,” I’m saying, eyebrow raised, lips pursed, head nodding. I’m thinking to myself, this lady means business.

Precious suddenly looks fidgety and restless, she’s peering out of the window where there are now five plumes of smoke. “Look,” she says “I’ve got to get going. I’m sure you can imagine I’ve got quite a lot on my plate now…”

I’m agreeing: “Yes, of course, quite!” I’m feeling dizzy; I want to tell her that I like her, admire her. “I’ll get out of your hair,” I say stupidly. “Thank you, sorry.”

She’s frowning critically again. “Right, but first aren’t you curious why I’ve chosen to tell you all this?”

I clear my throat.

I shrug my shoulders.

I tug at my T-shirt pulling it up like I’m looking for something.

“Gosh, yes, well of course, I just thought… You had to get going?”

I shrug my shoulders. “I’m commissioning you to make an artwork about the revolution and The People Who Share, The Rest of Us, the service industry, the sharing economy, the end of capitalism… It could be like a kind of Bayeux tapestry[11]

or a workshop or some land art, or whatever really — you’re the artist, aren’t you?”


So, I’m back in the studio, the revolution has happened. I’m making cups of tea and starting to get inspired, starting to get ideas.


This isn’t about the future.

That has an extra cost.

I’ve created an App.

Offering access to tomorrow.

For a small fee. Just search for The People That Share.

Poster promoting Tomonow app

Poster promoting Tomonow app. Image courtesy Tomonow.

All images courtesy of the artist.

A version of this text and its accompanying artwork was first published in Silicon Plateau Volume 2 (2018), edited by Marialaura Ghidini and Tara Kelton, and published by the Institute of Network Cultures, Amsterdam, in collaboration with The Centre for Internet and Society, Bangalore.

  • 01.

    “The Committee to Protect Journalists is an independent, nonprofit organization that promotes press freedom worldwide.” “What We Do”, Committee to Protect Journalists.

  • 02.

    To dox or doxx is “to publish private information about someone on the Internet, without their permission and in a way that reveals their name, where they live, etc.” “DOX,” Cambridge English Dictionary.

  • 03.

    Short for art criticism.

  • 04.

    Andrei Tarkovsky (1932–1986) was a postwar Russian filmmaker. See James Quandt, “Andrei Tarkovsky: The Poet of Apocalypse,” TIFF, October 1, 2018. Also “Five Shots of Tarkovsky,” The Criterion Collection, March 9, 2020.

  • 05.

    “The History of Uber – Uber’s Timeline,” Uber Newsroom.

  • 06.

    Garrett Camp and Travis Kalanick are the co-founders of Uber.

  • 07.

    Aaron Tan, “Uber: We want transportation be as reliable as running water,” Techgoondu, September 17, 2015.

  • 08.

    Bengaluru, or Bangalore, is in the midst of a water crisis. See Annie Banerji, “Bengaluru water crisis: More work, less water in India's 'Silicon Valley'”, Livemint, June 5, 2019.

  • 09.

    Spencer Ackerman, “Two More Merc Firms Get Big Iraq Contracts,” WIRED, May 4, 2011. Also John M. Broder and James Risen, “Blackwater Tops Firms in Iraq in Shooting Rate,” The New York Times, September 27, 2007.

  • 10.

    Jamie Manson, “Filmmaker seeks answers in Simone Weil,” National Catholic Reporter, March 13, 2012.

  • 11.

    The Bayeux Tapetry is a 70 metre-long tapestry that details the conquest of England by William, Duke of Normandy in 1066. “Bayeux Tapestry,” Bayeux Museum.

Artists and Contributors

Lucy Pawlak picture

Lucy Pawlak

Lucy Pawlak is a troublemaker whose body of work focuses on making room for improvisation and play within structure. She deploys a variety of mediums (screen-writing, workshops, games, performance, theatre, drawing) to design structures that address of how and why we adhere to systems and what the possibilities of breaking with patterns might offer. Pawlak has created a number of odd spaces that aim to function as temporary and very small, autonomous and somewhat flawed utopias: gym sessions, film sets, self help groups. Lucy is a Londoner who sometimes works with young people as a boxing coach, she was a member of the Lux Associate Artists Program 2011 (London), studied Painting at the Royal College of Art (London) and Cinematography at the Polish National Film, Television and Theatre School (Lodz, Poland).