 Working on giving a context by talking about their past work, maybe showing you images, really preparing you for what you're going to see. Then they share a new work in development, in process. And then we also have invited a critical respondent, and that's a very open term. It can be an essayist, it can be an artist, it can be a thinker, a philosopher, it can be anyone at all. And in this case, Shea Ghazad, who is an archivist and a scholar, has been connecting with the artists who you did not know for this process, and who will be here to offer their own critical response to the work in this moment. And again, the aim is not to critically deconstruct the work, but to trace some thread or idea. Is that a fair way to say it? Great. And then we'll also have an opportunity to talk and have a bit of a conversation with you all. So that's it, and I'll turn it over to the artist. Thank you so much. My name is Felicia Zacada, I'm a theater maker at it before. How do you approach it? I'm a filmmaker, theater maker, and I was born in Indiana. We met about seven years ago in a festival. I was performing in it. I was documenting it. And that's how I met, that's how we met. And a few years later, me keep off the email, to me saying, hey, do you wanna make something? With me, so I said, yeah, let's make something. So we decided to make something together. And we got together? Right, but we didn't know each other so well. So we were just talking to just find out who you are, who I am, and what are you gonna do? And then we discovered that both of us, like, silent them. Okay, let's make a silent them together. Let's do that first, then we'll see what happens. So then the next part was, so what's the story? What are we, what's the content of the silent film? What do we put in it? And again, as we didn't know each other, we would meet, we would talk, and suddenly one of those talks sort of turned into an interview where I was sort of deeply asking questions and interviewing sorry, specifically to about how she came to America. Well, you kind of decided that this is gonna be about my life. Coming to America. And then, and I said, but we didn't really have a better idea at the time. So okay, let's start with that and see what happens. So she interviewed me about my life and we sat down in a whole food lounge for about two hours and I told her what happened, how I came to United States and I even showed her my diary at the time and the facts that I sent to my parents with illustrations describing what my life in New York is like. So, and that includes a story about me coming to New York, well, the reason why I came to the United States is basically because I had a big breakup with my boyfriend in Japan at the time who introduced me to a theater world. He was my world, but it broke down and my future was broken down and pieces. So I had to go away. So I decided to go to New York and I would have no money, no money and nobody to rely on. So I bought a one-way ticket to New York and didn't really, well, couldn't really tell on my parents how long it's gonna be and what am I gonna be doing and what's my plan. I didn't have any plans, so I couldn't answer. But I went anyway. Then I landed with no English and it's $300 in my state bank account. So I needed a job right away and I needed a place to stay. I found this horrendous hotel called Riverside Hotel. It was full of junkies and drug dealers and according to cockroaches and it was scary and wild, but I stayed there and I found this job on, I saw this ad on the free paper saying a club diamond looking for girls and oh, what I needed in the job is a immediate cash, weekly cash rate because I really didn't have anything and I needed to be fed and I needed, I didn't have anything and so they said a costume provider so I'll get perfect. And I went to the interview and I got the job and I started from that night long. And in this place, club diamond is a funny place. It's sort of like a, it's around my Japanese people in midtown and they call it piano bar, but there's no piano. Basically a gentleman's club like idea, but there's no touching. And so what I was hired to do amongst other girls is to dress up nicely with a tight dress and be pretty and sit down with the clientele and pour their drinks and light their cigarettes and carry out a wonderful conversation to make them feel like there's a best thing in the world. So that's what I did for cash. And that is the part of this New York story that I didn't tell to my parents. I edited it out. So I thought, Ron, this is a great silent film. And we're gonna tell the story set in 1920s, black women film about a young Japanese woman who comes to America to be a big star. So we've created a piece called Club Diamond and Club Diamond is that story told four different ways. One is the 1927 black women silent films, part one, one layer. The second layer is Japan has a tradition called the Benchy. And Benchy were the narrators of silent film. And these guys were often bigger than the stars of the film themselves. They would speak the parts, they would do fully like fake sound effects, they would gossip, they would tell you everything about the affair of the people we were having on set. And so everyone came here to see the Benchy's. And Benchy sat on the side of the film and would narrate because all of the films were coming from Britain or Japan so that she couldn't make up anything they wanted about the story. So that's sort of layer two of the story being told to the Japanese is the Benchy over there. And then layer three is 10 years later in 1947 where many of the Benchy, all of them, she really loves their jobs to the talkies. And we're also in American-occupied Japan. So there's another tradition in Japan called kamishibai which translates as paper play. So guys would go on their bicycles with a little mini stage on the back with candies and they would give candies to the kids, ring the bell, the kids would all gather around and they would open up this little mini stage and on it were drawings, or drawings. So it was like an episodic storytelling and this was really the beginning of comic books in Mocha. So that's sort of layer three. And that layer four was souring in 2017 telling a story of coming to America, what she didn't do until her parents. So that's what club diamond the piece that we made. So imagine, if you will, I'm gonna show you a little excerpt that on this side of the stage is the fabulous composer by Winston Fang with the music for the piece and also today live violin into the score and Green on the Benchy in 1937. Hi, everyone. I'm Yoko Hama, a former member of the film company. Today we'll be showing you the piece called The Ex-Out of Club Diamond. It's called The Benchy Scudder. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'm not sure. So it's called The Ex-Out of Club Diamond. Nixon, Jackson, Go, ho ho ho, and the cow, club diamond. Hatsunoshimi. Very dramatic version. What happens after this in club diamond is that the film gets tangled up and breaks and burns. The film burns and the story burns. Only the facts, Mickey, only the facts. 17 years ago, you said there are three things that happened to you. Fire, the death, the betrayal. Let's begin with fire. I was living in Seattle with my partner Karen just about seven years ago. I moved in there about seven years. And in a building called the Balana. And in May of 2001, there was a fire that took out about eight units. One was mine. We moved it together. And are you at home when the fire happened? No, at the time I was actually in Pennsylvania. My mom had been sick with breast cancer for a long time and she was in the last stages. She passed away about seven days after the fire. So how did you know about the fire? I got a call from Karen's two friends, Nancy and Jenny Mowell. They told me that Karen was okay. She wasn't in the apartment, but she was fine. She wasn't hurt, but she was medicated. So, because I knew my mother was dying, it was a big dilemma about whether to stay there in Pennsylvania, whether to come back, whether to bring her out. And after a lot of consultation with friends, I decided to stay. When did you go back to your apartment? To the living room. And then I came back. A lot of time it is later to a bed and breakfast across the street. I have good insurance, so they put me up over there. What happened to your stuff? Did it get burned? Yeah, once my stuff was burned and I recommend insurance. I had good insurance. And an adjuster came, they called him the adjuster. So the adjuster came into the apartment and I think no matter how dark things are, our other job is to actually write down and somehow document every single object that you own from the most expensive stereo to literally the condiments in the refrigerator. So I was delivering a document that's about 40, something pages long with about 40 to 50 items per page from ketchup to mustard and capers with two columns afterwards which were either cashing out. So I would get like three cents for the capers or I could rebuy the capers. So both of those sort of tallyed up into a number that was the, you know, the work of my blinds. Great. Niki, this is going to be our next piece. Club Diamond was based on my story and was painful. This time it's gonna be her story. Now, and there's another thing that she told me that inspired me and us and that we want to incorporate with this new piece. She had this encounter, very interesting encounter with this person. She's gonna describe it when she was doing the research for a documentary documentary film that you're making. So I think that first conversation got us into talking about value and the value and stuff and our belongings and how we value them. And then the second piece that I was telling her so I was working on a documentary about one of the Tibetans that came over with the Dalai Lama left at 59 and was part of a Rockefeller Young Scholars program that brought a group of these monks. They were all, they just graduated. They just got their patient degree, which is a PhD in their monastery system, and in the 60s and brought them to America and someone who I've known for 25 years and studied with cameras during a documentary about them and a friend who said, oh, I know these guys, they're just about to open the Rockefeller archive up in Territown and you can go up and I was like, oh, fantastic. So I took the train up, went to this huge building that was pretty much empty, it wasn't open yet. These two guys were like, sit here, just wait for a minute and they'll be right with you. And so then down the aisle in this very dark, like basement like giant hallway place came this guy who was about five foot two, he was probably in his mid to late 60s. He had a big brown, ill-fitting suit on and his hair was all come in this. And he had a big giant cart full of every piece of the Rockefeller archive that he could find related to this Young Scholars program and in fact found Caleb Rumpershain as his name and found the ledgers that had been written and the telegram that had been written to India that said send in monks. And so I got to spend the day with an archivist. Amazing. Part two. So let's make an animation film about this guy. Let's make a little puppet piece of this archivist guy in an underground library. That's gonna be our piece. So in Cloud Diamond we had a silent film and we wanted the music to be really romantic, really techy but good violin music. So we asked our friend Tim Fank who is an incredible violinist and composer to compose the music to the silent film and he played a performed live on stage with us too. For this time, for archivist, what do we want for this animation film? Sherlock. And we happen to know this wonderful cellist, Ruben Kogeli, ladies and gentlemen. It's of, I was born in Albania, so it's a folk song from... Beautiful. Thank you. I think every artist's process is different in terms of how they make things and how they bring things together. So we're starting to really wear the early phases of this piece and so we're bringing together a couple of ideas, one of which really is archiving and value and how we value the things we have and we're in such an interesting digital age of how you keep things and how time affects value and so. And he just joined us like yesterday. I mean, we asked him before and then he said yes, but we didn't really have material to share or for a film for him to score yet. So we kind of explained the rough idea, but it was on the wall for a while and yesterday he joined us and said, hey, can you do something with us? So there he is. And we just gave him a little clue about what we're thinking about in terms of what we're interested in about the same archiving, the value of things, how do a thing gets evaluated by who and how whose story makes a value of a thing, that sort of thing. And yesterday you mentioned something about as a musician, like the playing of music is sort of like a archiving process or something like that. Yeah, because for example, that piece I played a long time, maybe 17 years ago, 18 years ago. And so in some ways, like your brain has an archive to remember things when you learn. They're very young. So I was thinking how for a musician, archiving is still what's in your mind and what you remember. And we're used to that because we're always memorizing classical music. We start with a lot of music from Bach and many times this music is written just for the instrument. So we are obligated to actually learn my memory, everything. So, yeah, it's funny. But when I go back and I played it for a while, I feel like I'm going back to my archive, remembering and how I learned and how I memorized everything. The whole muscle memory thing comes back. You mentioned it was like if you go back to a good book you read or something, that you re-invest in this? Yeah, yeah, it's kind of like, wow, almost the first time you get it. Or you remember what it was like to be part of that place the first time. So, Niki and I mock up animation film just as a test and we have a short test. So the other test shoots, and also we begin not like with a silent film, we first did it in video. So we start to mock it up, we start to sort of see how ideas are actually going to live in the world. And again, at the very early phase. What kind of animation are we talking about? What material do I want to use? Is it 2D or 3D or stop motion? So we kind of played with that idea and it just, with materials that were around, we used and we shot. And we're just going to ask Rubin to do something with it. Oh yeah, let's turn up that light. Yeah, in our studio. I'm from Philadelphia and we like to use tape and glue and cardboard. We have sort of a low-flying aesthetic as we say that the fight is with. So part two. And we'll show you another one that's different. Ready? Yes. Okay. So that's great. We do visit with inviting our fantastic, critical, shame-gouncing group for that beautiful piece. The stage has kind of become its own archive. And I was trying to think about how to best respond and really thinking about, you know, what are the kind of critical enemies that our work might share. And I have experience as an archivist myself. And in a way, one of the affinities between my own work and you all's amazing and beautiful and really vulnerable presentation in work is, you know, thinking about this question of valuation, these questions of like who gets to be remembered and memorialized and even monumentalized. And what are the archives that are working on kind of the lower frequencies? And many of the archives that I work with are of people who are less remembered or unnamed and that goes for enslaved people, the archive of slavery, which forces us to kind of rethink what the archive might be and where it might be. So for instance, thinking about the ocean as an archive of slavery or the world. And also other archives that I've been interested in are like AIDS activists. So these are all people who whose memory is scattered and you know, a lot of times we have to kind of piece these lives together. And it's always an act of real vulnerability and resilience to do that. And I'm so moved by both the kind of intimacy of invulnerability of you all delving into your own lives in really like cinematic musical ways. And so I thought perhaps, you know, maybe I'll try and be multiple and look at my own archive as well. And my own record of that is a bit strange. Strange, it actually, I've been working for the past several years on what's going to be a chat book. And my own archive is super disjointed, fragmented and literally it's just on Twitter and Facebook. So no more talking about like, you know, digital archives, that's exactly what I do basically. So I wanted to read some of my own, some work as prelude, which means, you know, to play before and this is, and this is a lute play since. Okay, so I'll just read part of it. It's called Cruising in the End Times, which is kind of, yeah, that's just what it's all about. Okay, and it'll probably be clear what it is. Friend, happy birthday, me. It's actually tomorrow, but thank you. Then, it is tomorrow in India. Decolonizing time is the best birthday gift. What are those empty spaces and gaps in your bookshelf but holes eagerly waiting to be built? Bibliophilia and slut theory and book crushy and pleasure of the text. The feeling when you're too cute for human and animal and gender minors. Happy trans day of opacity. The so-called age of trans visibility is really the age of visible absence. Trans as gender and ruins. Let's all be ruined together. What happens when we're ruined together? They build out the banks, but they can't. Build out big freedom? So much for trans visibility, abolition now. The real existential question for cruising in the end times. Could you ever be with someone who doesn't love me? I've decided to call my wayward, crooked, unruly, deviant teeth queer and to love them more. Thinking about how to create infrastructures of life beyond romantic relation alone. I.e., thinking about the politics of friendship. My usual after a day long, a long day at work discourse with my cat, who I've moved now, so that's another archive. Begins with my mind a lot about my day, standing into the intimacy of all my feels and then plantly requesting that the cat please don't touch that. That being whatever object of emotional significance that the cat has decided is actually an object of cat play and cat desire. And with me finally wondering out loud when the cat will finally get a job, how can I rent my groceries and do chores around here after all. The feeling when you're signing up for a jiu-jitsu so you can channel your family rage and choke out and throw around a couple of arrow bros a few times a week without any cultural consequences. America isn't broken, it was built this way. When a blue cage broke down, all the prison cage and border walls. We need John Brown's studies, not Wagner's studies. If white people like minimalism so much, why don't they just disappear? White techno-futurism isn't nearly. Knew who else was a white techno-futurist? Christopher Columbus. White guy and big hat and walking around with an occupying large t-shirt equals peak gentrification as colonization. Now that Elon Musk is on Trump's advisory team, does that mean we get to send the white nationalist house to Mars? Why techno-fascism? What if we all pride at the gym? The feeling when you want to get a 3D printer to make a copy of yourself for word purposes. And this last piece is just condensed, it's called reading. Reading, reading done generously and receptively and promiscuously. Reading as submission, reading as non-monogamy and resisting the notion that we must be married to any particular gux-style, theory, philosophy. Reading as polyamory. After we all had so many lovers and don't want you to continue to yearn for more. Reading as insatiable desire, as taking in more than one. Reading as being more than one. Reading as decision, reading as torture, reading as suture, reading as lust, reading as tactile, as figuring the pages with pleasure and anticipation. Reading as a rival political, reading as the showing of the fiction of the subject-object distinction and their actual relationship of interplay. Reading as entanglement, as ontology, as being with, as becoming, as worlding, as individual, as beyond the threshold, as touching feeling. Reading as play, reading as exchange, reading as willing, reading as vulnerability, reading as opening and stretching, reading as analogy, reading as whole, reading because there's no whole, reading as non-sovereerness, un-sovere, reading as virality, as contagion, reading as transmission, reading as transference, as being both analyst and adolescent, as projection and introjection, reading as being a bossy body, pleasure of the text in need. Thanks. Thank you so much, Jay. Oh, I was just gonna say thank you. I really appreciate that. Thank you for joining us today. I want to invite Sari and Nicky to the stage and if you'd like to join us as well, it'd be great. Would you like to come too? We have just a little bit of time in case anyone has any questions. I really firmly believe in the idea that the only sort of productive, generous Q and A is one that honors the Q. That is to say, if you have any comments or preambles, I ask them to whisper them to yourself or say them throughout the lobby. And then right now, it's about asking questions because that's the chance for everybody to participate together. So I'll have it and just say I was really taken by how you all found the archive as a place of introspection. And I was wondering if you also all hinted at the idea of institutions of archive. So what is that, what are the institutions that inform the sort of matrix of your personal archive? If that makes sense. Like what are the models that shape how you understand the archive? Institution of archive, but I also think a lot about personal archive, too. Like my experience moving to a different place and impact your stuff. And you try to decide what to pack and what to discard and what to store somewhere else and things like that, personal archive. And if I keep this, and how long am I gonna keep it? And then if I keep it forever and then I'm gone, then what's gonna happen to this thing? Do that mean anything to anybody? That sort of thing is a personal level, archive you like to eat. Why do I keep this thing? Okay, it matters to me, but after my life, no one knows what this body is. So, like I keep it anyway, is what I often think. Such an amateur in the institutional idea, but I have an image and I always have an image which is the Natural History Museum and the drawers of the birds and spiders. That's my image when I think of an archive just in a big general sense. I actually found a picture of this woman. And she's in front of a drawer of parents. This is all of these dead parents who's like 40 of them. But, and I, it was she long ago actually in the Natural History Museum. It's just an astounding, like it was row after row after row after row of species and extinct species and so there's again to me this real reverberation between what we keep and then in a museum or an institution, what do you display and why do you display it and what's topical and what's current. And then we got into the conversation and sorry about the Stradivarius, the cellos, because there were very few cellos that Stradivarius made but a tiny number, so they're a huge value and there was a famous one called the Vatican Strap because the Vatican owned it and finally they released it to be sold and it's worth like half a billion dollars. Anyway, it's just a crazy. It's like five million, like more than five million. And now, yes, the story was two years ago, sorry. And so the rare instruments or suddenly the rare instrument, the conversation was, it's a place to put your money. What a good place to put your money in a rare instrument, it's like, that's weird. This is so weird. Yeah, I guess for me, my relationship to the archive has been really important by like black feminists who are working with the archives. So that ranges from professors like Sidney Hartman who writes a lot about the archive of slavery. So slavery becomes the institution that you're working with and to artists who really work with the archive of slavery and think about the absence of this. Because of the ways in which people were, you know, devalued or unvalued like you were saying. So approaching the archive is like always a process of feeling, but in this sense it's also a process of pain. But there's really powerful responses by artists. Like there's a poetry book console that uses the remnants of one instance of the archive of slavery, but it's like a ledger. And that's all that remains of this event, of the sinking of the throwing of overboard of enslaved people to get the insurance by British ship under that period of relation couples. And so the poet took this artifact and we did the words, like took a really kind of pace to turn something that was deeply depriving, like unimaginably depriving into this magical reinvention of the archive itself. So I think I'm often in my own archival practice, like moving with archives that are uninstitutionalized. Or the institutions are places of social control. So like prison archives, for instance. And the prison has a lot of power over what's accessible to the general public. So these are the kind of institutions that I work with, but also that I try to kind of amplify like how are we making our own archives as a collective process and how are those not holding only to the large institutions that have a lot of power. Thanks. Thank you. Are there any questions out there? Yeah, please. Yeah. Thank you. Hi, that was a great performance. I couldn't tell you an example, like what would normally go into your performance of this piece, of how much of your personal stories and spontaneity of music and stuff, like how much of it would you actually perform in a non-studio visit before that and how much of it, yeah. How much of it is a performance? You mean the story itself, let's say it was Sally's real story. Oh yes, wait. Well, here's just seems to be the next. Yeah, that's the art history. Like the structure that you presented today, that was such a mix of things. Like when you've performed this in the past over the semi-film in the past, how much of that would you get something to describe? Sure, so just to set the scene, what you saw, the only missing element, if you will, is Tim. So when it played, Tim Faye lived in this world over there, so imagine, very tall, very white, long, curly-haired guy with a violin on this side of the screen, and then the bench you look on this side of the screen, and for the first two thirds, that's the world that we're in. We're watching the film, we're watching this world unfold, and then the film breaks, that's how he said, and we move into the 1947 film. So it magically changes, and comes out on a bicycle with the Kanisha by stage, and starts telling, retelling the story again as the Kanisha by guy. Well, a very label legend attached to how he developed the same story after the war, and under the American occupation. I'm bracketing that at the beginning, and I'm sorry, in 2017 just coming out and just using me to find the story. But maybe what you meant to ask is included, to take a personal story into, and make it into studio visits. In your case, they're still making it, trying to find a story to make a theater out of. We don't know what parts of the pieces of this particular horrific month of my life will actually be theatricalized. I know why she was really reticent to have her story told. It's really uncomfortable. Yeah, it is really uncomfortable, because once you tell a story to someone, and then it becomes something to shape up into something else, and then I always say, no, no, no, that's not how it went, or that's not what happened. But then you step out of it, and you just accept the fact that it's no longer your story, then it just becomes a work. I think it goes with any sort of art. And to give some context, with a live show at Club Diamond, they showed just the film, and just the beginnings of what the... Did you do some of the commission work as well? Yeah. At the Public Theater three years ago, and that became the impetus for then completing the work. And so it's really exciting to be at this moment to see again these gestures, these beginnings of ideas of what that animation might look like, what are the burning questions, what are the autobiographical elements, what are the philosophical elements, and how is music at the very core of the sort of compositional germination. So I really appreciate that you showed a little bit of what that companion piece of Club Diamond looks like in its completed scene, so that we can pretend now. A beautiful question. I should be glad you asked that, because it was just me trying to figure out these two separate projects. Is this part of the project that's already finished and talking about another project, or is this all part of the same thing? The introduction left me a little confused, so I was afraid to ask that question now that I know it shouldn't be there. So, so then another question. I gather that the Club film, that was just part of the performance. However, you played, sorry, I can't pronounce the Japanese word, the character of the guy who tells the story. You, you did that in Japanese. Yes. So in the performance, it's in Japanese. So then what struck me is, since there's no subtitles, and most of us here don't speak Japanese, it's kind of like the opposite of subtitles. And the other thing is, you have the live musician on stage, and you have the live person during the Japanese talk about this silent movie. It struck me that you're almost like a musician, and it's not about the verbal meaning of the words, that the music stands with you making, and the energy is coming from that side of the stage, and your character, like, energy that's coming over there in a musical format, is almost like, oh, this is silent movie, where the guy comes out with the organ, or the piano player, with the right type of music in the 1920s movie. So I was, like, loving that, and then some of you guys started talking, and then it was like, wait, did I misunderstand something? So, thank you. No question? Well, there was kind of a question when they were answering, so I'm sorry. But an efficient question, alright? So, yes. Was it? Oh, fine. Are there any other questions? No? Oh, are you thinking one more? You're still formulating. I'll give you the time. So just to respond to her, when I do the Benishi, the narration part, I do work as a musician. I feel like I'm working with music and silence, and the visual, like, the whole component is for me to be working with as a musician. Yeah. Alright, Mark, well, I think I know how to ask you that. I was very good. Thank you so much. I wasn't being very impressive to see it. Thank you for sharing. I was very intrigued or excited to hear your version of archives as music or the ocean of memories, or the slide memories as very fluid archives. And you talked about institutions of archive or institutions, which are very rigid. As we're thinking now in technology where everything's more fluid, the bigger archives are flexible, which belong to companies, not so much institutions now. We're looking at open source movement, which we're looking at. We're looking at the future in terms of fluid, collective, memories of archives. And what do we keep, what do we store it, because we used to store music in CDs or buy our cassettes. And right now it's an MP3. How are we looking to the future to store untangible, beautiful things like this, or other things? I don't know if it makes sense. Yeah. Okay. Well, yeah, I think the technologies are changing. And I think there's some really cool instances of community archives that I'm seeing that are kind of like online in this time of like digital humanities, basically. There's an archive of, I think it's called like a community archive of police violence and it's included. And it was local community organizers who realized that the local police, and this is true for a lot of different, you know, at the federal level, I think there are statistics, but they were like, the LAPD, for instance, would destroy its own records. So there was a kind of record kept of acts, incidents of police violence. So the community members were doing it themselves. And then anybody could act to it. And I think it's like just a WordPress site, which is like important for access, not only because it's not, you know, well, because anybody can demand the democratic process of it, but then also with something like Twitter or Facebook, you know, there's the difficult reality of it's allowing a lot of voices to have their say. But at the same time, like you're saying, it is, there are kind of huge corporations that are having effects that are real, like gender-finding sentences, so it's a kind of double-blind to figure out the ethics of the archive. Yeah, that's a good question. Well, I just want to say thank you all so much for being here today. Thank you. It's a real pleasure to be able to intersect with the work of art at this moment in time and to explore some of the ideas by inviting other artists and voices in the room. So I hope you'll join us. We have one more studio visit over in the Segal Center and it's starting in 10 minutes. And that's with Chumiel Casoco. So with that, thank you for responding rather than yes, the critical response. So we'll see you there. Thank you so much.