Leaks and Rumblings: An Experimental Confluence of (In)Visible Rivers in São Paulo and London

Spontaneous vegetation at leak of Saracura River in São Paul, analogue photograph. Image Courtesy of Jan van Duppen, 2023.
Jan van Duppen, Augusto Aneas, Aileen Harvey, Sandra Jasper, Laura Kemmer, and Claudia Andreoli Muniz investigate two veiled rivers in the cities of Sāo Paulo and London through creative urban experimentation, revealing the intertwined narratives of colonialism, urban planning, and more-than-human life.
[Ed. Note: This article is part of a dossier on Creative Urban Methods.]

This article discusses a series of experiments in engaging with two invisible rivers in the cities of Sāo Paulo and London, and in doing so, it reflects on creative urban methods and their potential to better understand the affective dimensions and contested histories of more-than-human life in the urban. As a group of scholars and an artist, we undertook an asynchronous twinned tracing of the two rivers by means of analogue photography, practices of listening, and artistic translations of materials encountered. Due to large (historical) urban planning projects, these rivers, and the lives they sustained, have been seemingly rendered invisible from the everyday experience of the city. Bound up with this invisibility are political struggles on displacement and the right to the city and contested histories of colonialism and migration. Yet, despite these concerted violent efforts to contain the rivers, they leak back into the city, seeping into the everyday. We explore these leaks through different sensory registers and bring this in conversation with Astrida Neimanis’s generative reading of Luce Irigaray’s work on ‘bodies’ as always exceeding “what they ‘are’, across time, space, and species”.1Astrida Neimanis, Bodies of Water – Posthuman Feminist Phenomenology (London and New York: Bloomsbury Academic, 2017), 75. As we witness the porous urban, we appreciate the river as “beautifully uncontainable” and posit this body of water as providing a radical opening for thinking of the city as a multispecies world.2Bethany Hughes, “Beautifully Uncontainable: Of Honeysuckle and Choctaw Walking,” Mobilities 17, no. 2 (2022): 238–51.

The twinning of rivers in the global North and South is an experimental comparative gesture that takes inspiration from Robinson’s work on comparative urbanism and the artistic project Wasteland Twinning.3Jennifer Robinson, “Cities in a World of Cities: The Comparative Gesture,” International Journal of Urban and Regional Research 35, no. 1 (January 16, 2011): 1–23. Brought into contact by two interdisciplinary workshops that occurred ten years apart, in London and São Paulo, we decided to twin and trace two distant hidden rivers with which group members had relationships (the Saracura and an unnamed stream in the London suburb of Walthamstow) within this research constellation, as an experiment with methodologies and collaboration. It is a partial, embodied river reading, a joining of dots informed by larger research projects but also our own personal trajectories and associations. In this text, we reflect upon these gaps and our attempt to hold onto a notion of reciprocity and porosity between us and the environment. We observe an asymmetry in the cultural, political, and historical significance of the two rivers discussed, but we are not focused on making a conventional binary comparison. This text is rather an experiment in different ways of uncovering what has been rendered invisible, canalised and channelled underground, and left out of maps. With the comparative gesture of generating “confluences” across the Atlantic, we wish to enrich our methodological vocabulary and to generate new potential forms of solidarity (alliances, collaborations) that connect urban more-than-human river communities across time and space. We discuss our experimental twinned tracing of rivers in four sections: noticing (1), translating (2), performing (3), and enacting confluence (4). In the text, we have tried to pair our voices, and each time we indicate who is speaking with the [author(s):].

1. Noticing the rivers: tracing leaks and listening to rumours

Our first encounter as a group of Brazilian and international academic researchers and activists from “allied riparian communities” took place in front of one of the many walls in the São Paulo centre where the Saracura River leaks through stone and cement. In March 2023, Jan, Sandra, and Laura met with Claudia, Augusto, and other representatives of the Salve Saracura collective. The collective represents one of the many movements in São Paulo that retrace the city’s hidden rivers, and in this function, they have organised walks with residents, city officials, artists, and activists to generate awareness of the histories of the Saracura River. Together, we follow the river flowing underneath our feet up and down the steep and narrow streets of the Bixiga neighbourhood. Tucked into the valley of the Saracura, just beneath the iconic Paulista Avenue high rises, this neighbourhood preserves a topography of green riverbanks and small houses that is known as the “Grota do Bixiga” (Bixiga Grotto).

Our walk takes place in a dry week in March. When we start walking into the Saracura Valley, at first, the river remains invisible to us. Yet, the sounds of its waters call its presence back into the city. Listening carefully, we can hear water droplets hitting the street pavement. The water is dripping from small pipes emerging underneath a high-rise onto the curbstone. The algae growing in the stream of water have coloured the edges of the street in dark green, leaving a small trace of colour as evidence of its presence. Further onwards, on the walk through the Grota do Bixiga, at Rua Doutor Seng, the trickling sound of the small stream transforms into a gentle rush. We kneel down and move our ears closer to the source of the sound, which seems to emanate from a short staircase at the end of a dead-end street. On a wall next to the street, someone wrote, “There is a spring here.” Following the river sounds, we walk slowly down Rua Rocha street, and as we approach its lowest point, the river becomes submerged by another water soundscape, the swooshing of numerous lava rapido, car wash companies catering to those modes of transport and urban development that have led to the sealing of the riverine landscape. Here, at the lowest point of the neighbourhood, the river is so close to the surface that it can be tapped for car washing, but it is also so close that in the rainy season, it regularly floods the basements of the houses in the district.

As we start walking up the street for lunch at the kitchen of the 9 de Julho (9th of July) occupation, we learn that not only this street name—which officially commemorates the uprising of the city’s population as part of the 1932 Constitutionalist Revolution—but also the river that rushes underneath it carry histories of violence and resistance. A huge mural just at the portal of the neighbourhood, before we step onto the viaduct that passes 9 de Julho street, shows a black woman that washes clothes at the Saracura river. She is a descendant of the maroon (quilombola) communities of resistant formerly enslaved people who had settled at the Saracura River at the turn of the twentieth century. Old maps still show the Saracura River stretching its powerful branches underneath the 9 de Julho street, forming a huge watery underground network with more than 300 rivers that have been covered by streets and asphalt in the course of modernisation and hygienisation policies from the 1930s onwards. What a crude irony that a city that is built on so much water regularly suffers drinking water shortages and droughts.

Rumblings. Aileen Harvey, 2023.

London’s long-buried network of tributary rivers and streams resist their boundaries, too; even the smallest rise up. [Aileen:] There is reputedly a stream that runs beneath our road in northeast London; our neighbour calls it “the lost river of Walthamstow.” It’s true that if you pause your step by the manhole cover at the shoulder of the hill, rushing water can be heard even in the height of summer.  After heavy rainfall, the cellars along our row become flooded. We’ve heard that a house further up the slope used to have a pump; the pump has gone, and now it is always wet. Last winter, in the wake of storms, we found several inches of water seeping up from underground, enough to soak anything we had complacently stored on the cellar floor: muddy shoes, a box of books–the cardboard bloating, dissolving, and within it all the pages fanning out in yellowed crinkly waves. I fill a jar with the water, which smells clean, and label it “flood.”

Floodwater. Image Courtesy of Aileen Harvey, 2023.

These are the signs in which I read a body of water that has been built over, contained to some extent, and I wonder if there are other signs that I’m missing, or am not equipped to “see” (or indeed whether I may be mistaken). Maps from before the city spread this far show a different river, several streets to the east, sometimes called the Phillebrook or Fillebrook. On YouTube, a man called John Rogers searches for underground rivers, and he refers to the “Philley Brook” as “the lost river of Walthamstow.” It’s possible that this is actually the river that our neighbour meant, but it is a good five-minute walk away, and downhill from here, so ours, if it exists, is a different waterway, and likely much smaller. Local knowledge is thin on the ground; its lines of descent are discontinuous through a rapidly changing population.

Walthamstow, London, 1822 (with ponds circled). Image Courtesy of Vestry House Museum.
Representation of the Saracura River. Map by SARA (Societá Anônima de Rilevamenti Aerofotogrammetrici) Brasil, 1930.

Yet the local museum has a map drawn in 1822, and it shows two small ponds at the place that would, in 1904, become the top of our street. Ponds would have been fed by some rivulet and would empty themselves slowly downstream, part of a network of watery threads that the map does not show (in which the map maker was not interested). This part of Walthamstow is a hill, surrounded by marshland, and I imagine the hillside running with small streams, feeding the marsh. I picture the birds, the big skies. We aren’t far from the edge of Epping Forest, where such a landscape is preserved, boggy ground threaded with small waterways, between tall trees: willow and alder, beech and oak.

2. Translating the rivers: attending to plants and materials
[São Paulo group:] Even with all attempts to erase its traces, the Saracura persists for centuries, either through its own indigenous name, which carries the sound of a bird, but also the memories of the Peabiru, an indigenous system of trails that connected the Atlantic to the Pacific Ocean. On our walk, we follow some of the medicinal plants that Denuzia Pedreira Bastos, a resident of the neighbourhood of indigenous origins, planted everywhere where she could find a piece of unsealed soil. Plants like Taioba (arrowleaf elephant ear) and agrião (cress) that are collected by locals for their nutritious and salubrious properties are also “riparian species” and thus proof of the Saracura existence. We follow the riparian plants and enter a community garden that is today cultivated by a group of women from the neighbourhood in Denuzia’s honor. Our host today is Romilda Correia, a black woman from the Bahia region who has lived in the neighbourhood for over 40 years, during which she has participated in many political movements and founded her own association that supports poor women, mothers, and domestic workers from the area. Romilda shares with us about her history and the history of the garden, she explains how today, in particular, the elderly population come by to take one or the other branch of healing herb, to have a chat, to find temporary shelter from the aggressive rush of cars, rising rents and rising living costs in the centre. At one point in the story, when Romilda explains to us who Denuzia is, what she stands for, how her way of healing was so generous and so expansive from her own backyard over the entire neighbourhood, the uncontainable waters of this space, of this moment in time and of this woman’s body overflow again. Romilda’s eyes are wet with tears as she shares her grief at the loss of Denuzia.

The work of translating between Romilda and the group, between Portuguese and English, reveals another, more troubling moment of translation at this moment. The rupture in the flow of words, the tears, the sense of discomfort and uncertainty. Maybe pausing with the limits of translation is a good way of taking seriously the critique towards the go-along in urban studies and urban ethnography–partly going back to its firm rooting in phenomenological approaches to being-in-the-world.4Philip Vannini and April Vannini, “Wild Walking: A Twofold Critique of the Walk-along Method,” in Walking through Social Research, ed. Charlotte Bates and Alex Rhys-Taylor (London: Routledge, 2017), 179–95; Stephanie Springgay and Sarah E. Truman, eds. Walking Methodologies in a More than Human World: WalkingLab (London: Routledge, 2018). Researchers working with affective embodied or sensory methodologies have criticised the frequent application of the method as just another “interview on the go” and have opened the method for a more critical, exposed, speculative approach beyond the illusion of intersubjectivity. This approach is adapted by Tricia Toso and colleagues from their “walk with” the St. Pierre river in Montreal, Canada, where the group of researchers claims that “the ghost river speaks back” to histories of colonial violence and forgetting, “at least if one is willing to listen to it.”5Tricia Toso, Kassandra Spooner-Lockyer, and Kregg Hetherington, “Walking with a Ghost River: Unsettling Place in the Anthropocene,” Anthropocenes – Human, Inhuman, Posthuman, no. 1 (2020): 7. These ways of walking as a group and with a river that does not seek to render urban elements and other-than-human beings as “knowable,” contrasts with psychogeography practices that tend to focus on an individual’s experience and reading of the city. As multispecies ethnographers Thom van Dooren, Ursula Münster, and Eben Kirksey write, taking seriously these others in their “otherness” requires “finding modes of muddling through that eschew the fantasy of universal translation.”6Thom van Dooren, Eben Kirksey, and Ursula Münster, “Multispecies Studies,” Environmental Humanities 8, no. 1 (2016): 16.

[Aileen:] In London, the question “Who might I ask?” slips in my mind to a dreaming of what is happening underground, of routes and layers and interpenetrations. I wonder what the trees might know. Their deep roots might drink from this stream; would it tickle, or arrive as a soft humidity? They might speak of it among themselves, with the soil and the weeds, the cultivated garden newcomers; I like this idea of signals and reciprocal exchanges that I can’t detect but which I can endeavour to make room for in my consciousness. I connect this imagined watery nonhuman community with Astrida Neimanis’s writing of “a more-than-human hydrocommons”: an expansive network of watery bodies and intimacies in which human illusions of autonomy and discreteness can fall away, effacing our edges and extending our timescales.7Astrida Neimanis, Bodies of Water – Posthuman Feminist Phenomenology (London and New York: Bloomsbury, 2017), 2.

Within these hydrocommons, we humans too absorb and leak; how might the roots and the underground stream be registering our buildings and re-buildings, our outpourings? The old stream waters transgress the course prescribed for them, and what do they touch, take in? I collect materials nearby: rusted rebar and pipes from a renovation; broken Victorian bricks in the colour called “London stock”; clay and flowers from my garden; berries from a street tree, alder cones, the bark of a silver birch. I work with these substances–wash, grind, soak, dissolve, cook–to convert them into inks, paints, and modifiers. Iron becomes orange, copper in vinegar makes verdigris (copper acetate), bright aqua. I make ink from kitchen compost and salt it liberally. These initial processes of transformation enable the diverse substances to interact on a sheet of paper, within the medium of water. The river-touched things express themselves as colours; they are transmuted into a common watery plane that, like a shared language, enables them to affect one another, to enter into dialogues. Here I have crossed over into art-making, which is a way of trying to understand something, although it is a mode that doesn’t aim at knowledge but at producing something currently unspecified (only, I will recognise it when I see it), something emergent that exceeds my idea for it. For me, this practice is a methodology of not knowing. Neimanis advocates “unknowability as an onto-epistemology and an ethics”;8Neimanis, Bodies of Water, 112. for her, this mode of engagement is a corrective to knowledge as mastery. Water and not-knowing are tied together because water escapes us: “the grammar of water necessarily rejects total knowledge by any body.”9Neimanis, Bodies of Water, 142.

3. Performing the rivers: walking and drawing
Embroidery that shows the rivers of Bixiga and the processes of invisibilisation. Source: @linhasdesampa, picture taken by Laura Kemmer, embroidery made by Solange Lisboa, 2019.
Protest/parade in defense of the Saracura River and the creation of Bixiga River Park. September 2021. Image Courtesy of Rogério Leite.
Protest/parade in defense of the Saracura River and the creation of Bixiga River Park. September 2021. Image Courtesy of Rogério Leite.
[São Paulo group:] For the Salve Saracura collective, walking has always been a way of denouncing and fighting against the successive erasures of the river. On the 12th of December 2019, Claudia and Augusto organised, with many others, in the neighbourhood a powerful parade, that let the Saracura flow through the streets of Bixiga again. From our allies at the Teatro Oficina, we were given a huge fabric, coloured in all shades of blue. We carried this fabric through the streets lined with crowds, let it undulate, and stream until we reached a land in front of the theatre, threatened for years to be covered by a shopping mall. It brought together the political and cultural dimensions; that is, it was a symbiosis between party and march, between parade and manifestation, and between artistic performance and claim. Until today, the fabric serves as a performative device, it allows us to re-enact the Saracura and to fight against real estate speculation and verticalisation in the neighbourhood.

[Aileen:] The space of drawing has many parallels with that of walking; it too is a leveller, a common ground that works against hierarchies, and an occasion for meandering. In the period of research for this paper, I have been testing conversations between materials on the page, using varied drawing processes to nudge water into forms, watching colours shift. I think about time: how a drawing takes the layers of process, sequence, and events into the plane of the paper, and what indices remain, what can be read back. For a while, I am in a state that is both familiar and uncomfortable: that of being at sea–and I notice that many of the metaphors I have for my relationship to my practice are watery. Being at sea is a phase of uncertain duration, where I alternate between doing and thinking: waiting for an opening, trusting that I will find a way through to the other state, that of flow, which is the inverse of at sea, is a mysterious sensation of ease, of discovering space within the work for all the necessary possibilities. It is a question of staying alert, of reading the signs. Implicit in this transition–from un-oriented to the hoped-for sensation of expansion, of being carried forward–are two thoughts: the absence of control, and an idea of making as finding something. Both thoughts de-centre the artist self as creator, redistributing agency across maker and work, human and matter. This experience resonates with Jane Bennett’s vital materialism, wherein she theorises “a vitality intrinsic to matter as such, an active, earthy, not-quite-human-capaciousness” and emphasises “the ensemble nature of action.”10Jane Bennett, Vibrant Matter: A Political Ecology of Things (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2010), 3, 37.

In these drawing explorations, I am streamlike, and I am looking for the stream, for its unruly presence, for something that disrupts the expected structures. I went to Paris last week, and the storm drains on the slopes of Montmartre were gushing and bubbling. There was a stagnant smell, something underground emptying itself into the hot streets, a hybrid body, contaminated–which is to say blended–with human waters. A disgruntled cousin of my stream, a distant relative of the great Saracura, was rising up, it seemed, to press a more fluid ontology, to demand our respectful attention–as Neimanis so aptly puts it: “a direct-action protest that floods up from the basement.”11Neimanis, Bodies of Water, 3.

4. Experiments in confluence

Untitled, extract from artist’s book Leaks & Rumblings (forthcoming). Drawings by Aileen Harvey. Photographs by Jan van Duppen. 

This section discusses our process of making photographs and drawings, posits our pairing of images as experiments in confluence, and develops this further in some concluding remarks on our collective twinning effort. [Jan:] As part of one of the collective walks in São Paulo, I made images with a disposable camera to try to capture the unruly river, its leaks, the atmospheres and constellations encountered along the way. I have worked before with disposable cameras and walking, and I enjoy the limitations that it offers to me, its portability, and the technology’s susceptibility to chance.12Jan van Duppen, “Picturing Diversions: The Work/Play of Walking on London Pavements,” Roadsides, no. 002 (2019): 51–60. The capacity of photography to transfix a moment in time and space, is also relevant in Aileen’s work since many of her experimental self-made inks and paints can change in sunlight over the course of weeks. The plant extracts have no archival quality. The colours are fugitive–they escape. The transient nature of the constellations on the paper that she is working with, then, becomes fixed only in the photographs she takes from them. This process of documentation is complicated by the wateriness of her method, which leads to rippled paper that casts shadows across the images. In these micro struggles in the studio, we find echoes of the uncontainability of water, the leaks of the river escaping the efforts of authorities to suppress it.

To push the idea of the comparative gesture, we began pairing the snapshots from the Saracura River walk with the drawings of the lost stream in Walthamstow, to bring these different ways of seeing hidden rivers in conversation with each other. We hoped to open up a space of imagination between the two voices, and highlight the processes of translation across these bodies of water that are involved in our research and artistic practices. Our aim with this experiment in the confluence of the São Paulo and London rivers was to spark a conversation across this imagery, a contamination, a leaking across different sensory registers. We also felt that with these pairings, the drawing might help to make a way into the photograph, and the other way around. The series of images also embodies something of our collaboration across interdisciplinary boundaries and North/South cities, it is the result of many Zoom meetings between Sao Paulo, Berlin, and London, multiple email exchanges, Google Drive shared files, WhatsApp and Telegram messages, screenshots shared. Sometimes accompanied with a sigh: “I wish we could sit together at the kitchen table now.”

[Aileen:] Time passes (the times of writing, of edits, and revisions), and some drawings find their shapes–ambiguous and fluid forms that tangle, pool, bloom, and taint one another.  In them, I see the liveliness of entwined matter; they suggest mappings and modes of growth: tangled flora, neural pathways, mycelia, or water networks. The drawings have come to rest within an unanticipated context: a collaborative artists’ book, one of the outcomes of sharing our research processes.13Aileen Harvey and Jan Van Duppen, Leaks and Rumblings (London, forthcoming). The book is a visual dialogue about dialogues. All of the images–my drawings with foraged materials and Jan’s photos–emerged from processes that incorporate many voices, human and nonhuman. They reflect this widening net of community: the “compost” of thought, storytelling, and shared experience; and, further, the idea of agency as distributed across a “heterogenous field” of beings.14Jennifer Mae Hamilton and Astrida Neimanis, “Composting Feminisms and Environmental Humanities,” Environmental Humanities 10, no. 2 (2018): 501–27.) (Bennett, Vibrant Matter: A Political Ecology of Things, 24. The image dialogue happens through affinities, repetitions, and contrasts: visual echoes, compositional dynamics, patches of colour, mood, and tone. Here, two modes of engagement with a body of water, two ways of trying to visually embrace all the things that the waters draw together, meet, and spill into one another.

[All authors:] Water invites us to be with bodies across time (memories, pasts, but also futures). It invites us to build communities across time, from London to colonised São Paulo, and beyond the human, between two canalised rivers. Through our methodological approach of twinned river tracing, we want to contribute to building what Neimanis calls “antichrononormative communities,” that is, more-than-human communities of human and more-than-human bodies of water that transgress linear or progressive time, that (re-)enact unruly, leaky pasts and futures in the present and can be connected/build solidarities across geographical places as distant as London and São Paulo.15Astrida Neimanis, “Water, A Queer Archive of Feeling,” in Tidalectics: Imagining an Oceanic Worldview through Art and Science, ed. Stefanie Hessler (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2018), 189–98.

In reference to Neimanis, we suggest that water can be read as a “queer archive of feeling”16Neimanis, “Water, A Queer Archive of Feeling.”, as an entity for thinking through things beyond rationale. Water as material entity that archives desire. From listening to staging a parade, this text then tries to open up different ways of seeing urban rivers that have been cast out of sight. To put it differently, what we propose here is a training of our senses, a plea to cultivate an attentiveness to the underworld bubbling up, to the leaks that become threads to critically investigate the more-than-human city. It is not as simple as following a route, or einfach walking together, no, this tracing of leakages is informed by decades of community activism, a foregrounding of indigenous knowledge, and patient concerted efforts to collaborate across disciplinary boundaries. It produces knowledge that challenges human-centric conceptions of the urban and disrupts formal and institutional representations of cities. This is a shared collective effort in counter-mapping, in translating and pairing “lost” rivers across the Atlantic, and it is in the gesture of pairing the images that perhaps a new tentative vocabulary is found to think across cities, to take feelings and all forms of life seriously, to trespass the categories of human/non-human.

Acknowledgments

Re-Scaling Global Health. Human Health and Multispecies Cohabitation on an Urban Planet” (Berlin University Alliance)

Designing with the Planet. Connecting riparian zones of struggle in São Paulo, Jakarta, and Berlin” (South Designs competition)

Alexander von Humboldt Foundation

German Academic Exchange Service (Martius-Chair)

Uncanny Landscapes (Rupert Griffiths & James Thurgill)

Notes

Notes
1 Astrida Neimanis, Bodies of Water – Posthuman Feminist Phenomenology (London and New York: Bloomsbury Academic, 2017), 75.
2 Bethany Hughes, “Beautifully Uncontainable: Of Honeysuckle and Choctaw Walking,” Mobilities 17, no. 2 (2022): 238–51.
3 Jennifer Robinson, “Cities in a World of Cities: The Comparative Gesture,” International Journal of Urban and Regional Research 35, no. 1 (January 16, 2011): 1–23.
4 Philip Vannini and April Vannini, “Wild Walking: A Twofold Critique of the Walk-along Method,” in Walking through Social Research, ed. Charlotte Bates and Alex Rhys-Taylor (London: Routledge, 2017), 179–95; Stephanie Springgay and Sarah E. Truman, eds. Walking Methodologies in a More than Human World: WalkingLab (London: Routledge, 2018).
5 Tricia Toso, Kassandra Spooner-Lockyer, and Kregg Hetherington, “Walking with a Ghost River: Unsettling Place in the Anthropocene,” Anthropocenes – Human, Inhuman, Posthuman, no. 1 (2020): 7.
6 Thom van Dooren, Eben Kirksey, and Ursula Münster, “Multispecies Studies,” Environmental Humanities 8, no. 1 (2016): 16.
7 Astrida Neimanis, Bodies of Water – Posthuman Feminist Phenomenology (London and New York: Bloomsbury, 2017), 2.
8 Neimanis, Bodies of Water, 112.
9 Neimanis, Bodies of Water, 142.
10 Jane Bennett, Vibrant Matter: A Political Ecology of Things (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2010), 3, 37.
11 Neimanis, Bodies of Water, 3.
12 Jan van Duppen, “Picturing Diversions: The Work/Play of Walking on London Pavements,” Roadsides, no. 002 (2019): 51–60.
13 Aileen Harvey and Jan Van Duppen, Leaks and Rumblings (London, forthcoming).
14 Jennifer Mae Hamilton and Astrida Neimanis, “Composting Feminisms and Environmental Humanities,” Environmental Humanities 10, no. 2 (2018): 501–27.) (Bennett, Vibrant Matter: A Political Ecology of Things, 24.
15 Astrida Neimanis, “Water, A Queer Archive of Feeling,” in Tidalectics: Imagining an Oceanic Worldview through Art and Science, ed. Stefanie Hessler (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2018), 189–98.
16 Neimanis, “Water, A Queer Archive of Feeling.”
van Duppen, Jan et. al. "Leaks and Rumblings: An Experimental Confluence of (In)Visible Rivers in São Paulo and London". Mediapolis: A Journal of Cities and Culture 8, no. 4 (November 2023).
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