One of Serafini’s intentions was to recreate the experience of a child browsing an encyclopaedia before they can read. It parallels a theme Jan and I heard Golan Levin talk about at KIKK festival in 2015. Coming from a Jewish family that weren’t particularly religious, he described the first time he saw the Torah. His dad pointed at the Hebrew text: ‘See that? That’s God’s handwriting.’ We feel the weight of meaning held in text, sometimes even more when we can’t read it. So it is that our project is called Movement Alphabet. We are creating portraits of movement, tracing the whole body through space and time much like ink on paper holds the movement of a pen. Right now, our portraits are grids of images, each capturing a short period of time. Stacked together they’re suggestive to me of elaborate Chinese calligraphy (as someone who can’t read Chinese) in a way similar to how Serafini’s writing feels to me a distant cousin of Greek. Tim Murray-Browne, 12 September 2016.They are intended as writing from the body, carrying the same individuality as handwriting. Much like how we write, the habitual patterns of movement from our body are ingrained from a mesh of influences. The natural mechanics of our physical selves mix with influence from others – parental instructions to sit up straight, teenage attempts to walk in a sexy way, unconscious mirroring of those around us and the assimilation of gestures much like we learn language. Likewise, numerous teachers have made tedious attempts to neaten my writing, with moderate success (if you could see it before…) yet it has ended up unique and personal. Letter variations are adopted from others and I spent many a maths lecture at university exploring how to make my notes look more like a Hollywood blackboard. I receive few handwritten envelopes in the post. I instantly recognise writing on the front for nearly all of them. Again, likewise with the moving body. Many times I’ve spotted someone in the distance who became recognisable by their gait once they began walking.