The lecture below, actually it is a fictional story,  was part of the seminar 'Out of theory' and the book presentation of the book with the same title. The speakers were asked to respond to the concepts of Theoria, Chthôn and Gaia as conceptualized by Peter Sonderen, the editor of the book. He proposes, following Giorgio Agamben he states:
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"Gaia [...] is more akin to theory, because Gaia’s main goal is to regulate, systematise and control the world. Chthôn, on the other hand, is not at all a know-it-all or solid ground but is the part that constantly breaks into the idea of completion and control. It is the permanent challenger. It acts as the life-giving critical practice and works by analogy with what art can do: make visible, bring out or subvert any form of control and power. Theory and practice, Chthôn and Gaia resonate. Life and death live together." (Peter Sonderen (2025) 'Chthonia and Gaia: Art and Theory' In: Out of Theory, Arnhem: ArtEZ Press)
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Thank you for the kind invitation, I am honoured to speak here today. 
 
Together with Miriam van Rijsingen, I am part of the experimental research collective IRBG.
I Rather be generous is our name, is our attitude, navigation tool and orientation. We believe that better stories help create a better world. Our stories revolve around how we can be more generous - in our work, in our thinking, and most of all in our daily lives. For us, generosity is not a fixed set of rules but a collective practice—something we shape and reshape together, over and over.. We've developed a range of tools and techniques: from engaging in affirmative conversations to opening up our process, sources, attempts, experiments, and mistakes—so others can learn from them. From our own practice as generous writers and thinkers, we actively seek out others, learning from them and passing on even more generous stories.
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One of our earliest experiments was to decide that everything would be a conversation from that point on. We realized: if we want to change the world, we must do it together. And so, the conversation became a concrete starting point.
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Among the many things we’ve tried, developed, practiced, and published, we've also begun experimenting with fiction writing. In the book presented today, you’ll find a transcript of a conversation we had about our use of fiction—and what it can bring.
We both have been researchers and writers for many years, but writing fiction is clearly something else. Just writing fiction, was not enough, we wanted to change the circumstances of writing into a more generous practice.
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We tried two approaches. First, we decided to write for someone—a story as a kind of gift. In this book, you’ll find one written especially for Peter. Second, we wanted the story to become part of a conversation. So, for this publication, we invited Peter to reflect and talk with us about the content. That conversation was recorded and turned into a podcast, available on the APRIA website.
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For Today I wanted to write a new story. A story especially for Research and Theory at ArtEZ. This story is for you.
 
 
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(Part of the title of this story is by George Eliot as quoted in 'the posthuman' by Rosi Braidotti)
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Theory and 'the Roar That Lies on the Other Side of Silence'.
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She is used to being talked about, often positively, yet she also regularly causes anger. That she never really does anything. Well, she’s busy all day with all kinds of essential matters. Some people claim she complicates things unnecessarily—that she makes everything vague, uncertain, hard to grasp. In the end, nobody knows what to do anymore. Artists in particular seem to curse at her when they’re once again ‘in their heads’ too much. Don’t worry, she tells herself, they wouldn’t know what to do without me.
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As she passes a window, Theory catches her own reflection. She nods in approval—until she notices her bag clashes with her dress. The idea had seemed so good at the time. The result? Different than the concept. She loves conceptualizing contemporary, fashionable outfits. Being ‘now’ is important to her. But she always forgets to look in the mirror afterwards. Reality can be so stubborn. That... that slips her mind regularly.
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Her eyes shift from her clothes to the sparkles in her ears. Diamonds. Stones formed deep within the earth. These gems come from the deepest parts. They ground her. A quiet reminder to stay connected to the soil.
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At the end of the street, from a far distance, a tall man approaches. She can tell from his walk that it’s Mr. Think. She hasn’t spoken to him for a long time. He does not notice her. She sees him stop and raise his arms in welcome. Then another figure steps out of a doorway—a smaller, balding man. He greets Mr. Think warmly. Old friends. Ancient friends, clearly. The second man is Conditions. He looks a bit worn and frayed at the edges. She isn’t surprised. Conditions always fare better in structured, more classical institutions, like universities.
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The two men suddenly walk toward her, purposefully, it seems. Do they have an appointment? Theory feels herself getting a little nervous.
“Good day, ho Theoros,” Mr. Think says, with deep respect in his eyes.
Theoros? Theory thinks. Or at least Theoria. She isn’t a man, is she?
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Mr. Think and Conditions nearly seem to bow to her.
“How are you, Theoros?”
“We were talking about you recently, about the time you emerged, back in the Greek hills, in the no-man’s-land between the city-states.”
“Where we men created the circumstances to think together outside our existing frameworks, where we could share our knowledge undisturbed.”
“And that’s how you came into being,” Conditions nods.
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Theory looks at the men with confusion. She can’t remember ever being in Greece. And men? Only men? What kind of old-fashioned nonsense is this now?
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“You look like you’ve forgotten everything, dear Theoros?” says Mr. Think worriedly.
“You’re not demented, are you?” Conditions looks frightened at this remark. “That would be a downright disaster.” (Ō theos, sōson me!)
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Suddenly, Theory hears the resonance of a swollen guttural sound reaching for a depth—“CHTHOOON...” She feels a little dizzy. It sounds again, from her lower abdomen, pushed out through her windpipe—CHTHOOON...
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Reality becomes a whirlwind: long-haired women, clouds of dust, waves of water. She is buried by elements she can no longer separate from each other.
“Furies,” she hears Mr. Think whisper with bated breath. One hand grabs her by the wrist, another by her ankles, and with firm force she’s pulled into the depths.
“They’re taking Theoros!” cries Conditions.
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Theory feels the layers of earth scraping past her—greasy clay, dusty, grainy sand, sometimes a bump, a stone or fossil, a piece of a jar, an underwater river, old thoughts, memories, times gone by. Is she descending into Hades? She always thought the classics were terribly overrated and now they seem to become the end of her.
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Time, hands, the whirlwind, and all the interweavings carry her further and further. Is it through strata of earth? Through times? Thoughts? Is this heaven? Or do they lead her into hell? She feels young and hip, but also old—old wisdom, ancient wisdom, Eastern knowledge, Mayan philosophy, Indigenous insights, future thinking, interdisciplinary, institutional and free. Are these all versions of herself? Orlando would have understood, she thinks.
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It is everything. She is all of it, and at the same time she is not. It flows through her, renews itself, transforms itself, contains all possibilities within itself—but never at any moment is it hers. Again, she hears a sound, but now a bit different—more like a roaring “roarrrrrrrr.” A being appears next to her. She feels the energy, and although she cannot see a clear figure, she understands who it is:
“Zoe!” she cries out. ROOARRRRRRR.
She feels the vibration and the endless energy. This is ever-continuing life—propelling itself, always forming, making, changing, repeating, but never the same.
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“You don’t know what a body can do,” sounds deep somewhere from the memories in the whirlwind, and a sharpened lens bounces against her nose.
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Some would think this is the beginning—a point of origin, Theory thinks, as she tumbles around herself and perhaps even slowly turns inside out. That this whirlwind carries her back to a pure essence.
“RRRRR...rrrr Nonssssenssssse,” she hears ZOE sigh in her ear.
No. There is no essence, thinks Theory. There is no point of clear and original meaning. Only movement. She understands that now.
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The whirl decreases. Slowly, she feels her limbs, cool air in her nostrils. Her feet touch the pavement of Onderlangs once again. She can’t tell if she is coming from above or below. From inside?
“Yes, she’s coming back,” she hears Mr. Think’s voice say.
“Oh thank goodness,” Conditions adds.
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“I forgot... I was so busy with the now... I forgot everything,” Theory murmurs.
Yes, she has been a man named Theoros. She was indeed there in the Greek hills. Yes, she has been a woman named Theoria. She is a book called Ethics, another called Posthuman, and Staying with the Trouble, but also Das Kapital. And She is still all of that. She is handed down in stories, passed down in knowledges. She is the manual for the new washing machine. She is traffic rules, lectures, soil analyses, predictions. She is harmony, she is a chord, she is a script and a blueprint. She is part of bell hooks, George Eliot, Rosi Braidotti and Oscar Wilde. She wanders with Glissant and is attentive with Stengers. At this moment, she is this hip Theory woman. Who knows what she might become next?
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Slowly she comes to her senses and looks at Mr. Think. Yes, she is Mr. Think too. Behind him stands Conditions with a worried look in his eyes and a bit of white around his nose. Yes, she is surely responsible for his existence as well.
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“Theoros, are you okay?”
“Those damned Furies!” Mr. Think raises his fists in the air.
Oh, that classic perspective, Theory thinks with a chuckle. Next he’ll be calling my slaying outfit a toga.
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“You seem so unstable, ho Theoros,” Conditions stammers. “We feared for your survival.”
“And without you—who will distinguish between assumptions and research, between following and experimenting, between personal process and making it public, between intuitive and discursive...”
Hmm, Theory thinks. Been hanging out with Dualism again, I see.
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“You don’t seem quite yourself, my man,” Mr. Think adds, also still looking around nervously for any sight of Furies.
Rooooarrr... Theory feels a familiar roar deep inside her.
“Zoe!” she thinks, hopefully.
“See!” cries Mr. Think. “Those damned Furies again!”
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Mr. Think and Conditions exchange worried glances. It’s obvious from everything that these two men go way back. Theory thinks of the Greek hills, long before they’re populated by tourists.
“Can you call me Theory?” she asks gently.
“I don’t identify as gendered, ethnic, or discourse-specific these days. Though- I appreciate the wandering spirit of ‘Theoria.’ Still—just Theory, please.”
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Mr. Think and Conditions exchange confused glances, still keeping an eye on the threatening situation.
“Rooooarrr...” it sounds again, from above and below—especially from within. Theory’s earrings begin to shine brightly.
“Hold my hand,” she reassures the gentlemen, “and don’t resist.”
rrrrrrrrrrrrrr whispers ZOE, and then—RRRRROAAARRRRRR!
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The men obey, but with obvious doubts. The whirlwind returns—and this time, it sweeps up all three of them. Furies, Rhizome, roots, sedimentation, witches, lichens and mushrooms, ecofeminists and non-human entities, critters, layer after layer, memory after memory and page after page, page after page after page after page, after page, after page, story after story after story after story.
rrrrroaarrrrrr
pffffffffffff. [inhale and exhale]
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“I am theory,” calls Mr. Think.
“Me too,” adds Conditions.
“You are the past—and the future. The source of your futures past,” they say.
“Now I get it,” says Mr. Think. “You are Thorein, and Theoria, and Filosofia. And just... Theory.”
“And the Furies. And—everything else?”
“What even is everything?” asks Conditions.
“It’s all connected!”
“Nothing stands alone!” he exclaims.
“It can’t stand alone!”
“And the conditions,” whispers Conditions, finally understanding.
“They’re not what I thought they were. The condition for theory... is connection.
With Experiment, with Research, Method, Practice. Artistic practice too.
Concepts. Arguments. And Techné... though let’s keep him at a distance—with his huge discourse.”
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Just then, a first-year student passes. They whisper something to Theory, eyes downcast, and quickly disappear.
“What was that?” asks Conditions.
“Oh,” Theory sighs,
“Someone who still needs to hand in an essay.”
“Let’s move on.”
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rrrrrrrrrr whispers Zoe.
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“Endless questioning, that’s what shaped me too,” Mr. Think adds, as if they haven’t been distracted.
“Questions are certainly important,” nods Conditions. “As long as they’re well formulated.”
“And they’re always about something. They arise from something. They have a ground.”
“And here—at the academy,” Theory asks aloud, “Who am I here? Am I that annoying voice in the artist’s head? The one that gets in the way of doing?”
“Or the designer?” adds Mr. Think. “Or the performer, musician, actor...”
“Right. Disciplines. Apparently, they help shape who I am too. Am I also important to Discipline? Do I help define what it makes possible? How do I work within it? What are its traditions? How is it connected to methods? And making?”
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From the pavement’s cracks, a whisper resonates in their fibres:
rrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
pfffff (breathing)
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All those questions, old, new, asked, re-asked or reformulated. Sensed but not yet spoken. Theory feels herself again. Feels her many forms. All that knowing, flowing. All that connection—vital and necessary. She feels life vibrating through her, and through all the others beside her. Interwoven. Interdependent.
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Together, they walk on—from Onderlangs to the station. They turn right at the first street, pass the indoor jeu-de-boules place, step into the front door of Coehoorn and stand in the hallway.
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“You know,” says Theory,
“This place is full of me.”
“Oh yes,” says Mr. Think.
“Saskia is Theory. And Joep too. Just like Frans, Peter, Jeroen, Minke, Bert, Renske, Anik, Monique, Sharon...”
“And they are not alone. They have artist-colleagues, and materials, and you name it...”
“And they love working together, connecting. They have groups and interdisciplinary stuff and collectives.”
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Ignoring Autonomy, who looks up from the crowd, alarmed.
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“It’ll be alright,” Mr. Think and Conditions nod.
“Yes,” smiles Theory,
“It’ll be more than alright,”
she says, and winks at her crowd.