My first time... at DEARS, WRITE at Cabaret Voltaire

I’ve been meaning to visit the Cabaret Voltaire again for quite some time. Once a month, DEARS, WRITE invites people here to write together. The idea of creating in the very same spot where artistic visionaries such as Hugo Ball and Sophie Taeuber-Arp once gathered fascinates me. I want to find out what the organisers mean by collective writing and how much Dada there is in DEARS.

So, on a cool, rainy Wednesday in early autumn, I cycle into Niederdorf. At the town hall, I turn off into the narrow, winding alleys and bump along the cobblestones. In front of the Cabaret, legs in long coats are already lined up along the stone wall.

Once inside, I can quite picture how, some 110 years ago, glasses clinked and poems danced in the smoke. Here, the Dadaists posed big questions in a small setting, such as: How do we respond to the present? And how can we reflect on the future? What language do we use for this? Through the semi-darkness of the artists’ pub, I climb the stairs to the Dada Library.

Once upstairs, casual conversation fills the well-lit room. I find a free chair at the long table in the middle. The bookcase, a reminder of the creative minds of yesteryear, takes pride of place against the back wall. Colourful designer lamps adorn modern concrete walls, and writing materials lie ready on the tables. A place suspended between eras, gently carrying me into the present. I look around with anticipation.

Delphine is one of the three founders of DEARS and explains the evening’s programme. Each meeting begins with a reading of three texts intuitively selected by the organisers, followed by a 30-minute writing session. We are invited to explore writing as an experience and in the presence of other voices, texts and bodies. What resonances and influences do these create within us? Anyone who wishes to may share a sentence or a passage at the end of the evening. This gives rise to a spontaneous, collectively woven composition.

The reading begins. Spending time with language and with others. I try to find my rhythm in Jos’s voice and go with the flow. She is one of the regulars and is reading from an anthropological text about ‘Susie Scribbles’, an archaic robot doll from the 80s. I suppress the urge to take notes.

Just listening, without a goal or intention. Putting the phone away. Not so easy. I shift about in my chair and am not sure where to rest my gaze. All around me, I see closed eyes.

The next text is about the sea between the shores of two different languages – Dutch and English. I listen to the sound of the waves. They are like language: sound, detached from things. The hope of being understood. The text’s metaphors land in my lap and the warm reading voice carries me away.

I lick my salty lips and listen spellbound as we dive into another reality in the next text. There, on the shores of the Mediterranean, Omnia from Gaza City imagines a modern Palestinian metropolis. She calls her dream ‘Gazapore’, much like Singapore. I hold my breath.

My chest tightens. And then there is silence.

Followed by the sound of ballpoint pens flying rapidly across the pages. Uppers bodies bent close over the paper and lines scribbled in a hurry. Letting the imagination run wild, getting caught up in it. I sit up straight, breathe out. Surprised, I reach for a pen. Standing quietly in the middle of the room is the question: and now?