In this essay, we consider the emergence of the concept of creative-relational inquiry (C-RI). We want to push further at the engagement between the creative, the relational, and the hyphen that binds them, and how it might provide a nuanced effort to problematize, and provide alternatives for, taken-for-granted assumptions concerning research and research practices. We work with C-RI as a concept and/or concept-as-methodology, and consider explorations and themes developed by the authors in this special issue as they also mobilize C-RI. We develop a conversation about our understanding and use of C-RI in our respective disciplines.


In this introductory essay, we discuss and explore the concept of creative-relational inquiry (C-RI) and the center of that name of which we are director (Jonathan) and associate directors (Marisa and Rosie) respectively. We begin somewhere close to the beginning, with the story of the becoming of the Centre for Creative-Relational Inquiry (CCRI) and an introduction to the themes developed by the authors in this special issue as they take up the concept. The discussion that follows, concerning how we understand and use creative-relational inquiry in our work, resonates with many of these themes.

As authors, we—Marisa, Jonathan, and I (Rosie, who is writing this section)—come to C-RI from different disciplinary backgrounds. Thus, we take different positions in relation to the concept of C-RI and there is no single voice that is “ours.” As three academics at different career stages and occupying different gender (and other) discourses, we are mindful of how power circulates, including here and now within our small group as we write, and how that circulation of power generates the risk that voices are lost or marginalized. We seek to stay alert to this.

As we engage with the process of writing this essay collaboratively, we are therefore negotiating our voices in relation to each other. This negotiation is both creative—how to present and move between our voices on the page—and relational, practiced through discussion and a noticing of the impacts of our interactions and writing on how we position ourselves and each other. We have chosen to present our writing in what follows in a way that preserves the identity of each of us as we write, allowing our different positions to speak to each other and avoiding the illusion of a single voice. This strategy also offers transparency to readers, enabling them to see how some voices might be more powerful and assured than others. As you read this essay, you will see that Jonathan, as founder of CCRI and author of a book that develops this concept, offers a thread that we, Marisa and I, pick up, respond to, and take somewhere different.


In the late afternoon, Thursday, 12 October 2017, we launched the Centre for Creative-Relational Inquiry in Edinburgh, UK.1 The rain fell, but from the top floor of the Edinburgh College of Art you could still make out Edinburgh castle to the north on its volcanic perch, its dim lights glistening. About 30 people attended the launch event, both from within and beyond the university: researchers, performers, artists, writers, therapists, policy makers—some local, some from farther afield (one from Toronto, via Manchester).

Like the rounded shape of a shell you happen upon as your bare foot presses the damp sand, the notion of creative-relational inquiry emerged while I, Jonathan, was walking on a beach in Cornwall in summer 2016:

It was Saturday 25 June, two days after the UK had voted to leave the European Union and we were mourning. The beach was the three-mile sweep of Whitsand Bay on Cornwall's southern coast. We were staying with our friend, Ken Gale, who lives nearby. For months I had been writing, dreaming and talking with friends and colleagues, about a new research centre; about why it was needed and what it could do. I had played around with names. In early drafts of the proposal for this centre I had called it the Centre for Transformative Inquiry (too clichéd), the Centre for Qualitative Inquiry (too broad), and the Centre for Transformative Qualitative Inquiry (too both). The notion of “centre” was and remains problematic, in its implications of stasis and hierarchy (as if it were something like a seat of government), but there did not seem an alternative, not least because of the designation of “centres” within my university.

“Walking, dancing, pleasure: these accompany the poetic act,” writes Hélène Cixous.2 It is not only about being at your desk in the back room typing, or sitting in the nook of your favourite café with your notebook open, pen poised. Sometimes you need to move, or move differently. “Walking-writing is a thinking-in-movement,” write Stephanie Springgay and Sarah E. Truman.3 I walked, barefoot on the summer sand, most likely not aware I was “thinking” about this imagined centre but, for sure, aware of my sadness for my country, and there was creative-relational inquiry.4

The name survived further drafts and comments from colleagues. The relevant committees and administrative bodies approved the proposal for the center, Marisa and Rosie joined as associate directors, and we found ourselves with a crowd of others at the top of a university building in heavy rain that evening in October. In the process of publicizing the new center, our colleague and PhD student, Melissa Dunlop, pointed out how the acronym, CCRI, becomes “Sea Cry” when you say it a certain way, and people brought and set up images, poems, films, and stories to the launch event, prompted by Sea Cry.5

It is therefore true to say that, in a sense, “creative-relational inquiry” found us and has been calling us ever since; not to work out what it means, but to work at what it does. We speak to it on Sea Cry's website in this way:

The Centre for Creative-Relational Inquiry (CCRI) fosters innovative qualitative research that places the relational at its heart. Key to the vision for the Centre is that it develop the “creative-relational” as a dynamic conceptual frame for vibrant, incisive research.

The center is a home for qualitative research that:

  • is situated, positioned, context-sensitive, personal, experience-near, and embodied;

  • embraces the performative and the aesthetic;

  • engages with the political, the social, and the ethical;

  • problematizes agency, autonomy, and representation;

  • cherishes its relationship with theory, creating concepts as it goes;

  • is dialogical and collaborative; and

  • is explicit and curious about the inquiry process itself.

Creative-relational inquiry might include:

  • detailed, close-up explorations of, for example, therapeutic and pedagogical relationships;

  • the use of the arts and performance as a methodological approach;

  • inquiries that put concepts and theories to work; and

  • research that engages practitioners and the wider public—creatively, relationally—in and with such research.

These possibilities are illustrative, not exhaustive.

CCRI makes space for and develops capacity for debate, thinking, and activity that argues for and contributes to the future of such interdisciplinary research, fostering collaborations and conversations within the University of Edinburgh, nationally and internationally.6

This says something, but it's not enough. It does what a research center website needs to do, but it does not play with “creative-relational inquiry.” A concept needs to be played with, plugged in,7 put to work, and we have been putting it to work, into practice, ever since, trusting that in doing so the concept will teach us what it does.


This special issue is another kind of doing, another kind of plugging in, another kind of teaching, in which the collection's authors put creative-relational inquiry to work through writing. The essays engage C-RI explicitly with questions of systemic, cultural, epistemological, and institutional power: how, for example, Wanda S. Pillow calls upon Tiffany Lethabo King's “decolonial refusal” and Audre Lorde's “erotic power” to be attended to in posthumanist and new materialist inquiry; how Dominique C. Hill and Durell M. Callier call upon collectivity, through writing in particular, as activism and resistance; how Fetaui Isofeo and Joshua Isofeo invoke va, the Samoan term for “relational space in-between,” to challenge dominant ways of mother–son relating; and how Edgar Rodríguez-Dorans opens up conversations about the often-disavowed stories gay men tell about the erotic and romantic and their implicit struggles to claim who they are.

Contributions in this collection mobilize C-RI as both concept and concept-as-methodology: Ken Gale takes up “onto-genesis” in (creative-)relation to writing practices; Stacy Holman Jones explores the possibilities for C-RI through the lens of theatre and performance; Fiona Alana Murray argues for C-RI as necessary, urgent, and responsive to “emergencies,” giving these emergencies “some elbowroom … , a space to strive”—urgency Anne M. Harris also picks up as she activates C-RI in challenge to the dominance of neoliberal values and approaches in the academy and to creativity-as-production. The essays differently do creative-relational inquiry; they put it into theorized action, show what it might be: Brooke Anne Hofsess's photo-essay offers how “social warming”—gathering, participatory bookmaking, and perforating—might offer possibilities for C-RI; Sarah Amira de la Garza brings her methodological thinking and doing into relationship with issues of migration.

The essays, as you can see, do more than one thing: They work with the politics, they re-theorize, they think methodologically, they do C-RI, and much more besides. We bring these essays to your attention here, while aware of our Introduction's reductive risk.

The three of us sit in silence, writing, in a sunlit room on a Friday afternoon on the first floor of a quirky Edinburgh building looking out over The Meadows. Marisa, Rosie, and I (Jonathan, writing this section) sit at a round table in the center of Marisa's shared office with a freshly brewed pot of coffee. We write with these essays in our bodies; they will find echoes in what follows. We write, our bodies write, making our/their way into this collaborative text.



In working with the concept of creative-relational inquiry, I take my cue from Brian Massumi, who argues for a different understanding of evolutionary processes. He proposes how the received wisdom of understanding evolution as pure (and only) adaptation is inadequate and leaves unacknowledged the degree of improvisation required; and by improvisation he is meaning:

a modification rising from within an activity's stirring, bringing a qualitative difference to its manner of unfolding. It is immanent to the activity's taking its own course.9

In other words, the something new that happens takes place in the act, in the process. Instead of the concept of adaptation, Massumi continues, it is much more convincing to speak in terms of Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari's becoming, or emergence: a becoming pulled “deformationally, creatively ahead, outside common sense,”10 pulled—and, surely, pushed—in particular by desire, “a force of liaison, a force of linkage, conveying a transformational tendency.”11

This desire takes the animal's becoming toward the “supernormal” of “life's exceeding itself.”12 Massumi writes:

Take it to heart: animal becoming is most human. It is in becoming animal that the human recurs to what is nonhuman at the heart of what moves it. This makes it surpassingly human. Creative-relationally more-than human.13

The creative-relational, for Massumi, is therefore what characterizes a process of becoming that takes it, the animal, the human, us, beyond ourselves, into the other, into becoming-other, into the more-than. Desire is the push and pull, the draw, the force of the creative-relational—the force that connects, the force that leans us toward (the) other, toward becoming-other, toward movement, toward change. Desire is the creative-relational gesture that means we can't not go beyond ourselves, can't not spill out, can't not become caught up in the im/possibility of life's excess.

Take it to heart. Massumi suggests the creative-relational is a process of becoming, with desire as its force. Creative-relational inquiry is concept, not methodology. It's inquiry that seeks not to “capture” and hold still, but to find a way, through desire, to do justice to the fluidity of process.


To do justice to the rigidity of outcomes, I include process in my co-produced methodological evaluation framework—a mouthful, but bear with me—called Measuring Humanity.14 My desire as a health policy scholar is to “measure” impacts of creative community engagement on health and inequalities. There are different ways of knowing,15 so why is my knowing as a “public health elite”16more than the knowing of the marginalized community members I engage with, dance with, make theatre with, make art with? Why are bodies, dissenting voices, hearts, excluded from an evidence-base that accepts only the written word and manipulated numbers—coded, aggregated—as evidence?

“Apostasy against the public health elite.”17 We need a reconceptualization of evidence in whatever creative-relational form is deemed fitting by those—the so-called hard-to-reach (always reachable when I reach out to reach them)—who are being “researched.” Their (subjective/asubjective) lived experiences are real and valid despite diverging from the (objective) scientific method. Their lived experiences count. They matter. We need them to “measure” what matters. To “measure” what makes us Human.

Measuring Humanity is concept and methodology. It's inquiry that seeks to “capture” and hold still the essence of something that cannot be contained, though it needs to be caught, categorized, constrained for health policy and practice purposes (“if you can't measure it, it doesn't exist”).18


Creative-relational inquiry takes up not (only) the commonsense understanding of creative—notions of making, of “being artistic,” etc.—but (also) the radical, creative opening-up-to-what-may-be, an opening-up within “an encounter [that] is not a confrontation with a ‘thing’ but a relation that is sensed, rather than understood.”19


My sense is that public health researchers need to take their work to heart. Feel the beating of our hearts as we gather and analyze data. Be affected by blood-pumping, heart-racing, flip-flopping, head-over-heel moments of connection in the field and at our desks, rather than putting emotions aside as we make sense of big data. Ignoring each heart palpitation, as we work on aggregation.

I want to take it to heart, but it's all about

heart attack,

heart failure,

heart disease.

I want to be allowed to feel as I research population health policy, and not feel ashamed that my research has affected me. Not hide, mask, or code human emotion in some reductionist way.

At the heart of Measuring Humanity is a different type of seeing-being-knowing-sensing often dismissed as an anecdote, informal feedback (not always written) or an insight without any provable quality, without any factual feature, bereft of truth, just someone's view, opinion, or story. Or something sensed. How can this be a type of “evidence” that feeds into policy and practice, scientists, and policy makers ask? How can it not? I reply.

Public health problems are persisting—exacerbating—despite significant policy and research investments. Poor health, pervasive inequalities, untenable pressure on health and social care services.20 Everything we've tried hasn't worked. Why not try something radically different?


Take it to heart. Writing as a method of inquiry is creative-relational. Writing as a method of inquiry—“a condition of possibility for ‘producing different knowledge and producing knowledge differently’”21—reaches out beyond us, reaches in to where we don't want to go, a “minor gesture.”22 Writing as inquiry is creative-relational in its various fluid, dynamic, hyphenated encounters: writer-reader, beyond-writer-beyond-reader-beyond; book-world-time; writing-thinking-outside-listening; present-future; and (in no particular order) writing-thinking-future-present.

Creative-relational inquiry is about movement, about process. Creativity as process, relating as process.


The problem with movement is that you can't put it in a box. And we need concepts to fit into categories, and to slide up and down scales, to measure them scientifically with rigor, validity, and reliability. My movement is often careless and fluid (though sometimes up against hard edges), rarely the same—sometimes passionate, sometimes powerless. I feel alive when I move.


Like how, when I am inquiring into loss, I might find a way to write into how loss changes, shifts, is never still: our adult son's sudden near-fatal road accident on the other side of the world23 and the jolt into life's precariousness; those hours of uncertainty as we wait to hear news; the surges of shock and disbelief; then after many days, relief. And how, a year, two years, three years on, it's still there, that mark on the calendar, that mark on our bodies, a continuing unfolding as he, we, all continue to become something other than we were.

Like how comedian Sarah Kendall, through the intricate intertwining family stories of her stand-up show, One-Seventeen, offers us fluidity through her inquiry into luck, loving, and loss through her stories of gazing at the stars with her father and her spontaneous cartwheeling across the stage taking us spinning with her into possible worlds. Now you see her, now you don't.

Take it to heart. Inquiry such as this renders the researcher—and the performer—in motion too: affected, involved, implicated, never able to be distant and separate, always caught up, caught up in the flow, only ever able to seek a way to shape, like ourselves, that which is partial, momentary, already transforming. “A body is always more than one: it is a processual field of relation and the limit at which that field expresses itself as such.”24

Creative-relational inquiry sees the process of relating itself as creative.


My “participant”—a human from the Deaf community telling more about his life in relation to mental health through the medium of comedy—makes a joke about using a magnifying glass to give him extra information to make up for his lost sense. Then he suggests putting the magnifying glass over his lips: “Can you lip read me now?” We laugh, a little uncomfortably. I see sadness in his eyes. For a moment, we connect on a matter that I can't put into words, but I need to find the words—and numbers—for my framework: empathy (though this makes me feel patronizing), communication (barriers to), interpersonal relationships. On a scale of 1 to 10, this encounter makes him feel a 3. What does that say about him? What does that say about me?


Like in therapy this week, when my client and I came to know that without the two of us being in that room together—though we have always been more than two—at that moment, and each week over the past 18 months, we never would have understood how rare, how precious, this encounter has been in his becoming aware that he matters, both to himself and to me.

Take it to heart. Creative-relational inquiry hints at the possible in relating. How “we”—bodies, meaning, life—are created in and through relating. The creative-relational keeps us guessing, is marked by its unfolding, by the promise of the not-yet, by unpredictability.

More than this, more than all of this, creative-relational casts relating—to others, to ourselves, to the material world—as generative process, as doing, as dynamic. The creative-relational acknowledges how relata—we, me, you, this—are produced through the relational.25


I feel like a fraud when I apply my co-produced methodological evaluation framework—Measuring Humanity—to capture and measure impacts of creative community engagement on health and inequalities, as I can't capture what happened in that moment. Trying to in such a positivist way, with me far removed from the results like some omnipotent know-it-all, makes me feel less Human.


The process of relating comes first. Like, how this wooden table, with my left hand, my writing hand, leaning on the black-covered notebook decorated in the red flower sketch drawn for me, a gift, my right forearm taking the weight of my leaning torso, the black bookmark cast up and back, the teacups for our guests—asleep downstairs—resting at the table's center, the pale wooden chair on which I sit, the early-morning bustle outside as the city awakens, and more, are in relation, in touch, and this relating is creating this, us, me.

Like how, in the Adam GC Riches show26 the other night, as he cast the two members of the audience he'd “invited” from the front row—their resistance futile—in the scene of a couple declaring and writing love to each other, the movement of bodies, the laughter, the imagination, the energy, the surprise, all caught us into its conjuring and we became what we weren't. Believing, hoping, trusting, aghast, in the semicircle of tiered seats watching the young woman dictating her declaration of love while her “lover” wrote her words in mock-blood, blindfolded, onto the performer's t-shirt. You had to be there. We went with it, finding ourselves otherwise in the absurdity of the burgeoning moment.

Such a take on relating hints, obliquely, at how Elizabeth de Freitas, drawing upon Karen Barad, speaks of the “queer alteration of relationality.” Not a humanist, anthropocentric relationality that blandly claims “everything is connected,” but a quantum relationality where “touch becomes the fundamental relation of the world—a quivering quantum tug that holds us together.”27 Touch in this framing is more than what we commonly understand—skin on skin—though it would include this too. Touch is the push/pull of relating that makes us—relating across time, across substances, across species. Touch is a “gesture of exchange with the world,” writes walker/writer Robert Macfarlane in The Old Ways, his book on ancient pathways: “The soles of our feet, shaped by the surfaces they press upon, are landscapes themselves with their own worn channels and roving lines.”28 For de Freitas, for Barad, touching is what language does: “Language is a kind of haptic/touch relation that inheres in the world and perhaps expresses the world.”29 Creative-relational inquiry touches.

Creative-relational inquiry is inquiry that works the hyphen.30 The hyphen as connection and link. The hyphen as vibrant, as catalytic, as engaged. A line, not a point, a hyphen-line that is “bifurcating, divergent and muddled,”31 indicating not singular direction but unfolding, unpredictable possibility. The hyphen as push and pull, as tension, as force. A line that ties. A line that joins. A line that speaks of engagement.


Hyphen (noun): the sign - , used to join words to indicate that they have a combined meaning or that they are linked in the grammar of a sentence (as in a pick-me-up, rock-forming minerals), to indicate the division of a word at the end of a line, or to indicate a missing element (as in short- and long-term).32

The hyphen. A line indicating a space between two words (or bodies?) connected yet separate, bounded, each meaning something in their own right. The hyphen. A space in which our subjectivities meet, where the conscious loses control of which aspects of us are on “display” to the other. Bodies speak, or leak,33 into the space demarcated by the hyphen. Bodies, speaking without words into the spaces, in-between bodies. Bodies speaking without words, alongside our words, as we respond to each other, as we inter-act. The hyphen allows us to recognize separation and connection as a dynamic, fluid way-of-being. As I write, I become conscious of how I am using the hyphen, to make space in words, to emphasize the relation of one part of the word to the other, and how this visibility changes my experience of these words.


The hyphen speaks of power, calling inquiry to be mindful of its own power, and mindful of the processes of power within and beyond it, alert to how these shape inquiry and the bodies involved.


In my work with narrative, it is useful to think about the hyphen in the researcher-researched relationship. The hyphen reminds me that we are separate but connected people, and that the space between is imbued with experiences of power.34 While we might ordinarily conceptualize this as a unidirectional “power over,” this is also a space where the researched might exert power,35 and thus, drawing on Michel Foucault,36 we might understand that power circulates through the hyphen shaping our inter-actions. Power is not only associated with our positions as researcher and researched, but is also linked to our intersecting discursive identities, all of which position us in relation to others within networks of power.37 These identities leak into the space between our bodies, through our words, through our attention; it is impossible to hide my identity as a psychiatric nurse in my work with people who have used mental health services. So I choose to tell participants. I risk closing down particular stories, and I cannot know the impact of revealing this aspect of my identity.


The hyphen drives the creative-relational; that's where its energy lies, never allowing inquiry to be complacent, always encouraging it to consider what's at stake, where it is, what work it's doing, what it's missing, what it's assuming, and where else it might go. The hyphen does not privilege one over the other, the creative over the relational, nor the relational over the creative, but privileges the possibilities they offer in their constant movement, their uncertainty, their working together.


I try to publish my Measuring Humanity findings in an unconventional way in a traditional management-policy journal. The special issue has a focus on spirituality and creativity. I speak from the heart, write from the heart. The peer reviews arrive in my inbox.

There are many typographical oddities in my essay. It does not follow the format that readers would anticipate for a peer-reviewed article. The topic and treatment are unconventional. Its write-up does not follow the generally accepted format found in the essays of this journal and journals in the discipline.

My essay attempts, but fails, to conform to the expected, well-ordered structure of outline of what we know (where the literature currently stands); what we need to know (including what we will find out after reading the essay); and analysis (empirical or not) supporting the thesis. I get back in my box.


Take it to heart. Not the romantic, humanist heart, but a heart of the more-than. Beating, rhythmic, racing, the heart that goes out, the one that does not “belong” only to the body it beats in. There is a “heart” to the creative-relational, there is a heart to creative-relational inquiry. We can say there can be, even, the personal; never, in fact, about a person, in that term's commonsense, humanist meanings, but a dynamic, late, collective, hyphenated you.

Like how, today, working on a poem in the early morning, I am working at both what belongs and what doesn't, how we belong and how we don't, what's possible and what's not, what we can bring and what we can't, what we want and what we don't. The hyphen of creative-relational inquiry keeps inquiry ready, alert; it opens, stretches inquiry to the limits.

The hyphen speaks of intimacy. It pulls together and pushes apart. The hyphen is not comfortable or comforting. It's not cozy. It plays with distance and proximity, is suggestive of intimacy, and hints at unease. I might see the hyphen where you don't.


You talk together-talk
Like lace-tie teeth-clean
No-thought pie-easy trip-off-the-tongue
and groove-like-Travolta
You talk together-talk
like mean-it believe-it
heart-bottom on-mother's-life
and so-help-me-god
You talk together-talk
like this is never-before
and so-glad-I-found-you
You do together
like didn't see you there
you get in my way crowd me
and need space or never coming back
Or is it I see together
like hip-joined peas-in-the-pod
sofa-curl dinner-for-two
and hear hyphens you never use

Your words sit in the space between us. Words, filled with potentiality, fluid, meaning-not-fixed. The last line lingers in my brain, unfolding in this moment a sense of longing to be known, desire for the hyphen to pull you close to that which you long for. A feeling of sadness. I wonder if that sadness belongs to me or to you. Like in the therapy room when I become aware of a powerful emotion, often when the words remained unemotional, and wondered if the emotion that hit me was mine or theirs. Transference. Like a “thing” that is transferred between bodies. With its opposite number, countertransference, this process is bounded, dialogic, and active. An unconscious, emotional dialogue. An emotional leaking of bodies into the space between us. Bodies speak, or leak into spaces, and these emotions circulate and stick to those of us who are receptive.38 Bodies, speaking without words in the spaces, in-between bodies. This emotional leakage shapes our experience of the world, our understanding of the spoken words as we meet in the hyphen, as we do C-RI.

I, as researcher, am at the other end of the hyphen. Imaginatively, in that space between us, you as writer/speaker, me as reader/listener, interpreter, unfolding meaning, bringing into this space those bits of myself of which I am and am not conscious. Allowing my interpretation to be driven by the work that happens in the hyphen, and at the same time accepting that the knowledge generated through this creative-relational process can only ever be partial and situated.



Centre for Creative-Relational Inquiry, “Home,”


Hélène Cixous, “The Newly-Born Woman,” in The Hélène Cixous Reader, ed. Susan Sellers (London: Routledge, 1994), 202.


Stephanie Springgay and Sarah E. Truman, Walking Methodologies in a More-than-human World: WalkingLab (London: Routledge, 2018), 131.


This section is adapted from Jonathan Wyatt, “Interval. Towards Creative-Relational Inquiry (1): Take It to Heart,” in Therapy, Stand-Up, and the Gesture of Writing: Towards Creative-Relational Inquiry (London: Routledge, 2019), 41–53.


Centre for Creative-Relational Inquiry, “Melissa Dunlop,”


Centre for Creative-Relational Inquiry, “Home.”


Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia, trans. Brian Massumi (London: Continuum, 2004).


In this section, Jonathan's text is adapted from Wyatt, “Interval. Towards Creative-Relational Inquiry.”


Brian Massumi, “The Supernormal Animal,” in The Nonhuman Turn, ed. Richard Grusin (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2015), 17 emphasis added.


Massumi, “The Supernormal Animal,” 9.


Massumi, “The Supernormal Animal,” 9.


Massumi, “The Supernormal Animal,” 14.


Massumi, “The Supernormal Animal,” 14 original emphasis.


Marisa de Andrade and Nikolina Angelova, “Evaluating and Evidencing Asset-Based Approaches and Co-production in Health Inequalities: Measuring the Unmeasurable?” Critical Public Health 30, no. 2 (2020): 232–44.


Patricia Leavy, Method Meets Art: Arts-Based Research Practice, 2nd ed. (New York: Guilford Press, 2015).


Richard Horton, “Offline: Apostasy Against the Public Health Elites,” Lancet, 391, no. 10121 (17 February 2018): 643,


Horton, “Offline: Apostasy Against the Public Health Elites.”


It's unclear who said this first, but these words went viral when Brené Brown uttered them in a TED talk. See Brené Brown, “The Power of Vulnerability,” TEDxHouston, June 2010,


Alecia Jackson, “Thinking Without Method,” Qualitative Inquiry 23, no. 9 (2017): 669.


Horton, “Offline: Apostasy Against the Public Health Elites.”


Elizabeth St. Pierre, “Methodology in the Fold and the Irruption of Transgressive Data,” International Journal of Qualitative Studies in Education 10, no. 2 (1997): 175. Cited in Laurel Richardson and Elizabeth St. Pierre, “Writing: A Method of Inquiry,” in Sage Handbook of Qualitative Research, 3rd ed., ed. Norman K. Denzin and Yvonna S. Lincoln (Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage, 2005), 828.


Erin Manning, The Minor Gesture (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2016).


In 2016—an account of this incident forms part of chapter 11 in Wyatt, Therapy, Stand-Up, and the Gesture of Writing.


Manning, The Minor Gesture, 17.


Karen Barad, Meeting the Universe Halfway: Quantum Physics and the Entanglement of Matter and Meaning (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2007).


The Inane Chicanery of a Certain Adam GC Riches, performance, Edinburgh, UK, August 2017.


Elizabeth de Freitas, “Karen Barad's Quantum Ontology and Posthuman Ethics: Rethinking the Concept of Relationality,” Qualitative Inquiry 23, no. 9 (2017): 747.


Robert Macfarlane, The Old Ways: A Journey on Foot (New York: Penguin, 2012), 161.


de Freitas, “Karen Barad's Quantum Ontology and Posthuman Ethics,” 747.


Michelle Fine, “Working the Hyphens: Reinventing Self and Other in Qualitative Research,” in The Landscape of Qualitative Research: Theories and Issues, ed. Norman K. Denzin and Yvonna S. Lincoln (Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage, 1998), 130–55.


Gilles Deleuze and Clare Parnet, Dialogues II, trans. Hugh Tomlinson and Barbara Habberjam (London: Continuum, 1977), viii.


Manning, The Minor Gesture.


Margrit Shildrick, Leaky Bodies and Boundaries: Feminism, Postmodernism and (Bio)ethics (London: Routledge, 1997).


Michel Foucault, Power: The Essential Works of Foucault 1954–1984, Volume 3, ed. James D. Faubion, trans. Robert Hurley (New York: Penguin, 2002).


Authors such as Suruchi Thapar‐Björkert and Marsha Henry, “Reassessing the Research Relationship: Location, Position and Power in Fieldwork Accounts,” International Journal of Social Research Methodology 7, no. 5 (2004): 363–81, also raise this issue of unidirectionality and the assumption that the researched occupy the position of the oppressed. They too draw on Foucault's conceptualization of power as a more realistic representation of the researcher–researched relationship.


Foucault, Power.


James Paul Gee, Social Linguistics and Literacies: Ideology in Discourses (London: Falmer Press, 1990).


Sara Ahmed, The Cultural Politics of Emotion, 2nd ed. (London: Routledge, 2015).