creative writing school
Module 2: Slowness
structure
Introduction
Theory
Inspiration:
Share your text with us
Theory
Inspiration:
- Chiharu Shiota
Share your text with us
introduction
As someone working with movement, one could assume I would have little interest in stillness. The opposite is true. I not only work with stillness as a compositional material. I often choreograph from it and with it. Because stillness is not simply the absence of movement. It is a specific condition.
And no, stillness is not slowness.
Slowness is movement that resists acceleration. It is an invitation to relate differently to time, space, the body, and attention. A slow movement is still movement.
Stillness is something else entirely. It is the decision not to move at all. To remain. To stay. To observe. To listen.
From a choreographic perspective, stillness is almost nothing. Yet this apparent nothingness gives meaning to everything that moves before and after it.
Stillness is ground zero.
It establishes scale.
It establishes contrast.
It establishes a shared point of reference.
Without stillness, movement risks becoming a continuous flow without hierarchy, without relief, without perspective. Just as silence gives shape to music, stillness gives shape to movement. It allows us to perceive intensity. Speed. Duration. Transformation.
When a performer stops on stage, something remarkable happens. Time changes. Narration suspends itself. The audience begins to wait. Attention reorganizes. The smallest gesture suddenly becomes visible. A shift of weight. A breath. The movement of an eyelid. What previously seemed insignificant acquires magnitude. So stillness recalibrates perception. It changes the scale through which we experience what is happening.
This is why I often think of stillness as an absolute. Not because nothing happens. But because the invisible becomes visible.
And perhaps this is why stillness can be so difficult. Both for performers and audiences. We have become accustomed to movement proving that something is happening.
Stillness asks us to trust that presence is enough.
That attention is enough.
That waiting is enough.
That meaning does not always emerge through action.
In performance, stillness often appears as an interruption. I experience it differently. As one of its most powerful materials.
And no, stillness is not slowness.
Slowness is movement that resists acceleration. It is an invitation to relate differently to time, space, the body, and attention. A slow movement is still movement.
Stillness is something else entirely. It is the decision not to move at all. To remain. To stay. To observe. To listen.
From a choreographic perspective, stillness is almost nothing. Yet this apparent nothingness gives meaning to everything that moves before and after it.
Stillness is ground zero.
It establishes scale.
It establishes contrast.
It establishes a shared point of reference.
Without stillness, movement risks becoming a continuous flow without hierarchy, without relief, without perspective. Just as silence gives shape to music, stillness gives shape to movement. It allows us to perceive intensity. Speed. Duration. Transformation.
When a performer stops on stage, something remarkable happens. Time changes. Narration suspends itself. The audience begins to wait. Attention reorganizes. The smallest gesture suddenly becomes visible. A shift of weight. A breath. The movement of an eyelid. What previously seemed insignificant acquires magnitude. So stillness recalibrates perception. It changes the scale through which we experience what is happening.
This is why I often think of stillness as an absolute. Not because nothing happens. But because the invisible becomes visible.
And perhaps this is why stillness can be so difficult. Both for performers and audiences. We have become accustomed to movement proving that something is happening.
Stillness asks us to trust that presence is enough.
That attention is enough.
That waiting is enough.
That meaning does not always emerge through action.
In performance, stillness often appears as an interruption. I experience it differently. As one of its most powerful materials.
theory
PhilosophY
The philosophical history of stillness is not primarily concerned with relaxation. It is concerned with attention, existence, and the conditions through which meaning emerges.
The Stoics were among the first to approach stillness as a practice rather than a state. For Marcus Aurelius, the challenge was not how to escape instability, but how to remain oriented within it. Loss, uncertainty, illness, conflict, death — these are unavoidable. The question is therefore not how to eliminate disturbance, but how to cultivate an inner architecture capable of withstanding it. Stillness becomes a form of composure, not because the world is calm, but because it is not.
With Martin Heidegger, stillness acquires a more existential dimension. In Being and Time, Heidegger describes how modern life is characterized by what he calls everydayness: a state of permanent occupation. We move from task to task, obligation to obligation, distraction to distraction. Occupation becomes a way of avoiding confrontation with more difficult questions: mortality, freedom, responsibility, meaning.
From this perspective, stillness is unsettling because it interrupts distraction. Once movement stops, certain questions become difficult to avoid. Heidegger's point is not that stillness provides answers. It is that stillness creates the conditions in which questions can finally appear.
The philosopher Henri Bergson adds another layer through his distinction between chronological time and lived time. A clock measures time quantitatively. Human beings experience it qualitatively. Five minutes of waiting, grief, boredom, desire, or anticipation do not occupy the same duration, despite being identical on a clock.
Stillness often transforms this lived temporality. Time thickens. Expands. Becomes denser. Details emerge that acceleration normally conceals. Bergson's notion of durée (duration) helps us understand why stillness often feels less like stopping and more like entering another temporal reality.
A similar intuition appears in Buddhist traditions. Contrary to popular misconceptions, meditation is not primarily a search for calmness. It is a practice of observation. The Zen notion of satori is often described as a sudden insight or awakening, but what interests me is the condition that precedes it: sustained attention. Noticing what is already there. Remaining long enough for perception to deepen.
Across these traditions, stillness appears as a method for encountering reality with greater precision.
The Stoics were among the first to approach stillness as a practice rather than a state. For Marcus Aurelius, the challenge was not how to escape instability, but how to remain oriented within it. Loss, uncertainty, illness, conflict, death — these are unavoidable. The question is therefore not how to eliminate disturbance, but how to cultivate an inner architecture capable of withstanding it. Stillness becomes a form of composure, not because the world is calm, but because it is not.
With Martin Heidegger, stillness acquires a more existential dimension. In Being and Time, Heidegger describes how modern life is characterized by what he calls everydayness: a state of permanent occupation. We move from task to task, obligation to obligation, distraction to distraction. Occupation becomes a way of avoiding confrontation with more difficult questions: mortality, freedom, responsibility, meaning.
From this perspective, stillness is unsettling because it interrupts distraction. Once movement stops, certain questions become difficult to avoid. Heidegger's point is not that stillness provides answers. It is that stillness creates the conditions in which questions can finally appear.
The philosopher Henri Bergson adds another layer through his distinction between chronological time and lived time. A clock measures time quantitatively. Human beings experience it qualitatively. Five minutes of waiting, grief, boredom, desire, or anticipation do not occupy the same duration, despite being identical on a clock.
Stillness often transforms this lived temporality. Time thickens. Expands. Becomes denser. Details emerge that acceleration normally conceals. Bergson's notion of durée (duration) helps us understand why stillness often feels less like stopping and more like entering another temporal reality.
A similar intuition appears in Buddhist traditions. Contrary to popular misconceptions, meditation is not primarily a search for calmness. It is a practice of observation. The Zen notion of satori is often described as a sudden insight or awakening, but what interests me is the condition that precedes it: sustained attention. Noticing what is already there. Remaining long enough for perception to deepen.
Across these traditions, stillness appears as a method for encountering reality with greater precision.
PSYCHOLOGY
Psychology introduces an important complication.
Not all stillness is chosen.
A body sitting in meditation and a body immobilized by fear may appear equally still from the outside. Internally, however, they are experiencing radically different realities.
This distinction becomes particularly clear in trauma theory. Drawing from the work of Peter A. Levine, particularly In an Unspoken Voice, we can distinguish between contemplative stillness and defensive stillness. The nervous system responds to threat through a variety of strategies: fight, flight, freeze, collapse.
Freeze is a form of stillness.
But unlike meditation or reflection, it is organized around survival. Perception narrows. The body prepares for danger. Time often becomes distorted. Immobilization serves protection rather than exploration.
This distinction is crucial because contemporary culture often romanticizes stillness without asking what kind of stillness is being experienced.
Psychology also confirms something that philosophy has long suspected: attention changes perception.
Research in mindfulness, attentional processes, and sensory awareness demonstrates that when attention stabilizes, subtler layers of experience become available. Small bodily sensations become perceptible. Emotional states become more differentiated. Environmental details acquire richness. The threshold of perception shifts.
This observation resonates strongly with the work of Maurice Merleau-Ponty. In Phenomenology of Perception, he argues that perception is not a purely intellectual activity. We encounter the world through a living body. We do not stand outside reality observing it from a distance. We are immersed within it.
From this perspective, stillness is never merely mental.
Breathing continues.
Weight continues.
Muscular tensions continue.
The world continues entering through the senses.
Stillness therefore reveals something fundamental: what we often call "nothing" is frequently an abundance of phenomena occurring beneath our usual threshold of attention.
This is perhaps the idea I find most useful as both a writer and a choreographer. Stillness is not the absence of experience. It is a change of scale.
When movement stops, we often move:
The capacity to stay.
The capacity to wait.
The capacity to notice.
Stillness is one of the conditions through which this becomes possible.
Not all stillness is chosen.
A body sitting in meditation and a body immobilized by fear may appear equally still from the outside. Internally, however, they are experiencing radically different realities.
This distinction becomes particularly clear in trauma theory. Drawing from the work of Peter A. Levine, particularly In an Unspoken Voice, we can distinguish between contemplative stillness and defensive stillness. The nervous system responds to threat through a variety of strategies: fight, flight, freeze, collapse.
Freeze is a form of stillness.
But unlike meditation or reflection, it is organized around survival. Perception narrows. The body prepares for danger. Time often becomes distorted. Immobilization serves protection rather than exploration.
This distinction is crucial because contemporary culture often romanticizes stillness without asking what kind of stillness is being experienced.
Psychology also confirms something that philosophy has long suspected: attention changes perception.
Research in mindfulness, attentional processes, and sensory awareness demonstrates that when attention stabilizes, subtler layers of experience become available. Small bodily sensations become perceptible. Emotional states become more differentiated. Environmental details acquire richness. The threshold of perception shifts.
This observation resonates strongly with the work of Maurice Merleau-Ponty. In Phenomenology of Perception, he argues that perception is not a purely intellectual activity. We encounter the world through a living body. We do not stand outside reality observing it from a distance. We are immersed within it.
From this perspective, stillness is never merely mental.
Breathing continues.
Weight continues.
Muscular tensions continue.
The world continues entering through the senses.
Stillness therefore reveals something fundamental: what we often call "nothing" is frequently an abundance of phenomena occurring beneath our usual threshold of attention.
This is perhaps the idea I find most useful as both a writer and a choreographer. Stillness is not the absence of experience. It is a change of scale.
When movement stops, we often move:
- from the outside to the inside
- from the visible to the almost invisible
- from the macro to the micro
- from action to sensation
- from event to perception
The capacity to stay.
The capacity to wait.
The capacity to notice.
Stillness is one of the conditions through which this becomes possible.
inspiration
What interests me in the work of Chiharu Shiota (Japanese installation artist) is her very unique relationship to time. Many artworks ask us to look. Shiota's work asks us to remain. She creates particular temporal condition. A suspended time. A time that lingers.
Her installations often consist of thousands of threads stretched across space, connecting objects that appear ordinary: keys, suitcases, beds, chairs, dresses, letters.
Yet once suspended within these vast networks, these objects cease to function as objects. They become traces. Remains. Evidence of lives, memories, departures, absences.
What fascinates me is that nothing in these installations is actually happening. And yet they feel intensely alive. This reminds us that meaning does not always emerge through action. Sometimes meaning emerges through accumulation.
Her installations often consist of thousands of threads stretched across space, connecting objects that appear ordinary: keys, suitcases, beds, chairs, dresses, letters.
Yet once suspended within these vast networks, these objects cease to function as objects. They become traces. Remains. Evidence of lives, memories, departures, absences.
What fascinates me is that nothing in these installations is actually happening. And yet they feel intensely alive. This reminds us that meaning does not always emerge through action. Sometimes meaning emerges through accumulation.
This is particularly visible in The Key in the Hand (2015). Thousands of donated keys hang suspended within a dense architecture of red thread. Keys normally exist to open something. To produce access. To allow movement from one space to another. Here, however, they no longer open anything. They have become memories. The installation transforms a functional object into a container of time.
A refusal of closure.
A refusal of finality.
A refusal of closure.
A refusal of finality.
A similar logic appears in Lost Words (2017). Letters, words, fragments of communication become entangled within Shiota's thread structures. Language itself appears suspended. What was once meant to circulate now remains still.
This introduces another dimension of stillness. The stillness of what remains unsaid. The stillness of interrupted communication. The stillness of memory before it becomes narrative.
The longer we remain with her installations, the less we perceive them as monumental structures and the more we begin noticing details. A knot. A shadow. A single thread. The distance between two objects. A slight shift in perspective.
Attention migrates from the macro to the micro.
This is one of the deepest lessons of stillness.
Stillness is not what happens when experience disappears. Stillness is what allows smaller scales of experience to emerge.
For me, this is what makes Shiota's work profoundly relevant to writing. Her installations teach us how to create a space where meaning does not arrive all at once, but slowly, through attention. In this sense, her work is not only about memory, absence, or connection.
It is an invitation to practice stillness and observation.
This introduces another dimension of stillness. The stillness of what remains unsaid. The stillness of interrupted communication. The stillness of memory before it becomes narrative.
The longer we remain with her installations, the less we perceive them as monumental structures and the more we begin noticing details. A knot. A shadow. A single thread. The distance between two objects. A slight shift in perspective.
Attention migrates from the macro to the micro.
This is one of the deepest lessons of stillness.
Stillness is not what happens when experience disappears. Stillness is what allows smaller scales of experience to emerge.
For me, this is what makes Shiota's work profoundly relevant to writing. Her installations teach us how to create a space where meaning does not arrive all at once, but slowly, through attention. In this sense, her work is not only about memory, absence, or connection.
It is an invitation to practice stillness and observation.
creative writing exercise
THE RED THREAD
In Chiharu Shiota's installations, meaning does not emerge from a single object or gesture. It emerges through accumulation. A thread crosses another thread. Then another. Then another. Gradually, a world appears.
For this exercise, write from the perspective of a thread woven into one of Shiota's installations.
Do not focus on narrative. Focus on accumulation.
Layer images, memories, sensations, observations, and associations. Return to certain words or images. Repeat. Weave. Build density rather than progression.
Think of your text as an architecture rather than a story. Each sentence is another thread. Each paragraph another crossing. Trust accumulation. Allow meaning to emerge slowly, through the gradual weaving together of fragments.
In Chiharu Shiota's installations, meaning does not emerge from a single object or gesture. It emerges through accumulation. A thread crosses another thread. Then another. Then another. Gradually, a world appears.
For this exercise, write from the perspective of a thread woven into one of Shiota's installations.
Do not focus on narrative. Focus on accumulation.
Layer images, memories, sensations, observations, and associations. Return to certain words or images. Repeat. Weave. Build density rather than progression.
Think of your text as an architecture rather than a story. Each sentence is another thread. Each paragraph another crossing. Trust accumulation. Allow meaning to emerge slowly, through the gradual weaving together of fragments.
Photo: Chiharu Shiota