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Conversations with AdéọláDewis

Over two days in November, I’ve had the privilege of having conversations with Adéọlá Dewis, a Trinidadian diaspora artist whose work speaks to identity, transformation, and healing. Her practice draws deeply on the traditions of Trinidad Carnival and ritual masking, creating spaces for displaced communities to process and heal.

Our time together was broken up into 2-hour sessions over 4 days this allowed time in between sessions to process and and develop the work in my studio time.  The time with Adéọlá was rich and layered, touching on so many aspects: spirit, ritual, language, healing, mending, colonialism, Masking, the Welsh language, and the embodied practice of “wearing your story.”

Adéọlá encouraged me to share the personal roots of why I’m doing this work. Everything I talked about brought me back to the story of my grandmother’s broken and repaired teapot. That simple, humble object has become such a potent metaphor for me—a vessel once whole, then shattered, and carefully pieced back together. It holds generations of stories, pain, resilience, and love.

As we talked, I found myself diving deeper into the spiritual message behind Trwsio. We spoke about the ways trauma shows up in the world—especially in colonialism—how it lives in bodies, in stories, in cultures, and how art, carnival, and ritual can be a way to make sense of it, to start stitching the pieces back together.

 I talked about how I wanted to create a mask that symbolised the Earth (mother / Matter), in the shape of a teapot. This sparked a conversation about performance as a form of making the unseen visible. Adéọlá shared her experiences with Mas Carnival, where freedom of expression, collective energy, and ritual can transform pain into something communal and beautiful.

Together, we uncovered connections I hadn’t fully seen before—between myths and cultural stories. In cultures like Trinidad Carnival, masking is deeply rooted in African spiritual traditions, where masks are used in rituals to honour ancestors, invoke deities, or protect against malevolent forces. Masks often represent a bridge between the human and spiritual realms, embodying the power of transformation and renewal, particularly in the context of Carnival’s themes of death, rebirth, and resurrection. Carnival’s very name points to the fact that life and death, joy and sadness, are inextricably linked.

The use of masks in Carnival holds profound significance, both spiritually and culturally. In many traditions, masks serve as tools of transformation, enabling the wearer to embody a different identity, spirit, or archetype. This practice often connects to deeper themes of liberation, community, and the boundary between the physical and spiritual worlds. When examined alongside Welsh traditions of masking, compelling parallels emerge according to Dr Gwilym Morus-Baird at Celtic Source, the Bards didn’t necessarily wear masks but they did embody a type of transcendental state where performers would channel or be possessed by spirit or god. I talk more about this in Mask Wearing – A Liminal Space. 

At the time of our conversations, I had not yet made the teapot mask. It was only later after making it with an artist Alex Milledge, and working with it in my studio that I explored the concept of how I could embody this liminal space where I become something else. I let the mask activate me, exploring how it reveals even though it conceals, how they unveil what was once invisible.

Mother Tongue

Our conversation turned to the idea of the mother tongue—the language of the home. For my brother and me, English was the language we grew up speaking, we were not taught a single word of Welsh in school either. But in our grandmother’s home, Welsh was spoken. Yet, for my mother and uncle, it wasn’t.

I have spent a long time wondering why my grandmother didn’t speak Welsh to my mum, a decision shaped by her own experiences and society’s prejudices. She had been caned in school for speaking Welsh, a story my mother passed down to us. The trauma of that punishment might have influenced her choice to speak only English to her children, also my grandparents moved the family to Luton in 1954, and when my mother was 3, English became even more dominant in their lives.

The symbol of the tongue feels deeply meaningful to me. I explored this idea during a visit to a stone circle with my friend Milly. There, in a moment of raw connection, I literally licked the stones, imagining an exchange—a transfer—of language and memory.

A powerful quote about what the mother tongue symbolises comes from Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o, a Kenyan writer and cultural theorist. In his work Decolonising the Mind, he states:

“Language, any language, has a dual character: it is both a means of communication and a carrier of culture. Take language away from a people, they lose the memory of themselves.”

This quote beautifully encapsulates how the mother tongue represents not just a tool for speaking but a profound connection to identity, heritage, and cultural continuity. It symbolises the essence of a people’s history, values, and worldview, acting as a vessel for the transmission of collective memory and belonging.

While I consider myself Welsh, I speak English, English was the language of my home, friends and school, I wasn’t taught a single word of Welsh in school nor did I hear anyone else talking in Welsh However, when I went to Plymouth College back in 1997, I did try to fit in by trying to talk more “English,” but it didn’t last. 

I may not speak Welsh fluently, but with my Valleys dialect, my Welsh identity is ingrained in me. Even after living away for 28 years, I haven’t lost the way I talk. As they say, ‘You can take the girl out of the valley, but you can’t take the valley out of the girl.

The dialect I speak is Southeast Wales, where I grew up. We often say things like:

• “Whose jacket is that coat?”
• “Alright, love?”
• “Tidy butt.”
• “What’s bin doing?”
• “Do you want to sit by her, or over by there?”
• “Where is it to?”
• “Go on, mun.”

These phrases feel like threads connecting me to my roots, where the Welsh language whispers through English words, shaping not just our speech but the very essence of our identity as Welsh people who speak English. Yet, I can’t help but feel a sense of injustice and sadness that I grew up without speaking my true mother tongue, Welsh. Learning it now has not been easy—neither for me nor for my mother, as languages have never come naturally to us. My children, however, are fluent, and it fills me with pride to see them embrace what was once lost to me and my mother. My mother and I are still learning, step by step, inspired by the fluency of the next generation.

Wearing Your Story: Trauma Gowns

During our conversations, Adéọ́lá posed a question that resonated deeply with me: “How do you wear your story?” This question felt golden, sparking ideas. While she might have been asking how I embody my story through movement, as a maker as well as performer, I instinctively interpreted it in a literal and visual way—imagining how my story could manifest as a costume in performance.

From this conversation, the idea of “trauma gowns” was born. During my studio time, I began exploring this concept. I traced its outline onto large sheets of paper, cutting a hole for my head so I could wear it like a garment, leaving the sides open. I painted my experiences and emotions onto paper using watercolours, inks, and pens, allowing intuitive gestures and flowing colours to capture what words could not. Alongside this visual expression, I used a vocal pedal to craft a layered soundscape.

I explored the transformative intersection of sound as medicine and creative expression, focusing on the profound connection between the voice and the womb. The voice acts as a powerful tool for biofeedback, capable of locating and bringing awareness to trauma stored within the body. Through intentional vocalisation, sound becomes both an artistic medium and a therapeutic practice, offering a way to process emotions and transform them into creative output.

This exploration became a deeply immersive creative practice. By blending visual art with vocal soundscapes.

I delved deeply into the pain and trauma of my ectopic pregnancy, the surgery, and the profound loss of my baby at just eight weeks. Allowing the grief to surface and be expressed, I wore this painted hospital gown as a symbol—not only of my role as a patient but also as a metaphor for the collective healing humanity needs. I believe we are all recovering from millions of years of bio-spiritual trauma.

Later, I returned to a session with Adéọ́lá, bringing the painted gown, torn black paper, golden thread, and a needle. Adéọ́lá witnessed as I layered the torn paper over an image of the heart and sewed it with the golden thread. I had drawn and painted, then performed a ritualistic act of tearing and shredding the paper to reveal the heart beneath. This act was symbolic and ceremonial, embodying the process of healing and transformation.

Later, I returned to a session with Adéọ́lá, carrying the painted gown, torn black paper, golden thread, and a needle. Adéọ́lá watched as I carefully layered the torn paper over a heart I had drawn and painted and  I began stitching the black paper onto the heart with the golden thread. Once secured, I performed a ritualistic act of tearing and shredding the paper, gradually revealing the heart beneath. This ceremonial gesture symbolised the layers of healing we have to go through.

At the end of November, Grangetown Studios hosted a Q&A and a 10-minute work-in-progress showing for a small audience. This process felt deeply ritualistic and powerful creative expression. It was also an opportunity to test ideas for the opening night of my exhibition performance in February.

These conversations and my discoveries in the studio felt profoundly empowering. They sparked a thought: What if the NHS treated the body as a soul, deeply interconnected with the earth? What if we truly listened to our bodies, drawing wisdom from how indigenous cultures cared for the sick? Imagine integrating practices like acupuncture, nature connection, shamanic healing, organic food, meditation, and quantum journeying into healthcare. In such a system, would we even need pharmaceuticals? This vision aligns with my dream of a golden age—a time when we live in harmony with one another, the earth, and God.

Sgyrsiau gydag Adéọlá Dewis

Dros ddau ddiwrnod ym mis Tachwedd, fe gefais y fraint o sgwrsio gydag Adéọlá Dewis, artist o ddiaspora Trinidad y mae ei gwaith yn ymdrin â hunaniaeth, trawsnewidiad ac iachâd. Mae ei hymarfer yn tynnu’n ddwfn ar draddodiadau Carnifal Trinidad a mygydu defodol, gan greu gofodau i gymunedau wedi’u dadleoli brosesu ac adfer.

Rhannwyd ein hamser gyda’n gilydd yn sesiynau 2 awr dros 4 diwrnod. Roedd hyn yn caniatáu amser rhwng sesiynau i brosesu a datblygu’r gwaith yn fy amser stiwdio. Roedd yr amser gydag Adéọlá yn gyfoethog ac amlhaenog, ac fe gyffyrddodd â chymaint o agweddau: yr ysbrydol, defodau, iaith, iachâd, trwsio, gwladychiaeth, gwisgo mygydau, y Gymraeg, a’r arfer ymgorfforedig o “wisgo dy stori”.

Anogodd Adéọlá fi i rannu gwreiddiau personol fy rhesymau dros ymgymryd â’r gwaith hwn. Roedd popeth y siaradais amdano yn dod â mi nôl at hanes tebot fy mam-gu, tebot a dorrwyd ac a drwsiwyd. Mae’r gwrthrych syml a diymhongar hwnnw bellach yn drosiad mor rymus i mi—llestr a fu gynt yn gyflawn, a chwalodd, ac a atgyweiriwyd gyda gofal. Ynddo mae cenedlaethau o straeon, o boen, gwytnwch, a chariad.

Wrth i ni siarad, cefais fy hun yn plymio’n ddyfnach i’r neges ysbrydol y tu ôl i Trwsio. Fe fuon ni’n siarad am y ffyrdd y mae trawma yn codi ei ben yn y byd—yn enwedig drwy wladychiaeth—sut mae’n byw mewn cyrff, mewn hanesion, mewn diwylliannau, a sut gall celf, carnifal a defod gynnig ffyrdd o wneud synnwyr ohono, er mwyn cychwyn pwytho’r darnau yn ôl at ei gilydd.

Fe soniais am fy mwriad i greu mwgwd a oedd yn symbol o’r Ddaear (mam / Mater), ar ffurf tebot. Fe sbardunodd hyn sgwrs am berfformio fel ffordd o wneud yr anweledig yn weladwy. Siaradodd Adéọlá am ei phrofiadau gyda Charnifal Mas, ble gall rhyddid mynegiant, egni cyfunol a defod drawsnewid poen yn rhywbeth cymunedol a hardd.

Gyda’n gilydd, fe godon ni’r clawr ar gysylltiadau doeddwn i ddim wedi’u gweld yn iawn o’r blaen—rhwng chwedlau a hanesion diwylliannol. Mewn diwylliannau fel Carnifal Trinidad, mae’r arfer o wisgo mwgwd wedi’i gwreiddio’n ddwfn yn nhraddodiadau ysbrydol Affrica, ble mae mygydau’n cael eu defnyddio mewn defodau i anrhydeddu hynafiaid, i alw ar y duwiau neu i amddiffyn rhag grymoedd maleisus. Yn aml mae mygydau’n cynrychioli pont rhwng byd pobl a byd yr ysbryd, gan ymgorffori grym trawsnewidiad ac adnewyddiad, yn enwedig yng nghyd-destun themâu Carnifal, sef marwolaeth, aileni ac atgyfodiad. Mae’r enw ei hun, Carnifal, yn tynnu sylw at y ffaith bod cysylltiad annatod rhwng bywyd a marwolaeth, llawenydd a thristwch.

Mae’r defnydd o fygydau mewn Carnifal yn arbennig o arwyddocaol, yn ysbrydol ac yn ddiwylliannol. Mewn llawer o draddodiadau, mae mygydau’n arfau trawsnewidiad, gan alluogi’r sawl sy’n eu gwisgo i ymgorffori hunaniaeth, ysbryd neu archdeip gwahanol. Yn aml, mae’r arfer hwn yn cysylltu â themâu dyfnach o ryddhad, cymuned a’r ffin rhwng y byd materol a byd yr ysbryd. O’u harchwilio ochr yn ochr â thraddodiadau mygydu o Gymru, difyr yw nodi bod llawer sy’n debyg. Yn ôl Dr Gwilym Morus-Baird yn Celtic Source, nid oedd y beirdd o reidrwydd yn gwisgo mygydau, ond fe roedden nhw’n ymgorffori math o gyflwr trosgynnol ble byddai perfformwyr yn sianelu neu’n cael eu meddiannu gan ysbryd neu dduw. Rwy’n siarad mwy am hyn yn Drwy’r Mwgwd: Porthol i Draddodiad Barddol Cymru. 

Tra’r oedden ni’n sgwrsio, nid oeddwn wedi gwneud y mwgwd tebot eto. Dim ond yn ddiweddarach, ar ôl ei greu gyda’r artist Alex Milledge a gweithio gyda’r mwgwd yn fy stiwdio, y dechreuais archwilio’r cysyniad o sut gallwn ymgorffori’r porthol hwn ble rwy’n troi’n rhywbeth arall. Gadawais i’r mwgwd fy ysgogi, gan archwilio sut mae’n datguddio hyd yn oed pan fo’n cuddio, sut gall ddadlennu’r hyn a fu gynt tu ôl i’r llen.

Mamiaith

Trodd ein sgwrs at y syniad o famiaith—iaith y cartref. I fy mrawd a mi, Saesneg oedd iaith ein plentyndod. Chawson ni’r un gair o Gymraeg yn yr ysgol chwaith. Ond yng nghartref ein mam-gu, câi’r Gymraeg ei siarad. Eto i gyd, gyda fy mam a fy ewythr, châi hi ddim.

Rwy wedi treulio amser maith yn pendroni ynghylch pam na wnaeth fy mam-gu siarad Cymraeg â fy mam, penderfyniad a luniwyd gan ei phrofiadau hi ei hun a rhagfarnau cymdeithas. Byddai hi’n cael ei churo â’r gansen yn yr ysgol am siarad Cymraeg, stori a draddododd fy mam i ni. Efallai fod trawma’r gosb honno wedi dylanwadu ar ei dewis i siarad dim ond Saesneg â’i phlant. At hynny, symudodd fy mam-gu a nhad-cu y teulu i Luton yn 1954, a chyda fy mam yn dair oed daeth Saesneg yn fwy blaenllaw byth yn eu bywydau.

Mae symbol y tafod yn teimlo’n arbennig o ystyrlon i mi. Archwiliais y syniad hwn ar ymweliad â chylch cerrig gyda fy ffrind Milly. Yno, mewn eiliad o gysylltiad greddfol, fe lyfais y cerrig yn llythrennol, gan ddychmygu cyfnewidiad—trosglwyddiad—o iaith a chof.

Mae gan Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o, awdur a damcaniaethwr diwylliannol o Kenya, ddyfyniad pwerus am beth mae’r famiaith yn ei symboleiddio. Yn ei waith Decolonising the Mind, dywed:

“Mae i iaith, unrhyw iaith, gymeriad deuol: mae’n gyfrwng cyfathrebu ac yn draddodwr diwylliant. Tynnwch iaith oddi ar bobl, fe gollan nhw’r cof amdanynt eu hunain.”

Mae’r dyfyniad hwn yn crynhoi’n hyfryd sut mae’r famiaith nid yn unig yn arf ar gyfer siarad ond hefyd yn gysylltiad dwys â hunaniaeth, treftadaeth, a pharhad diwylliannol. Mae’n symbol o hanfod hanes, gwerthoedd a byd-olwg pobl, yn gyfrwng ar gyfer trosglwyddo cof cymuned ac ymdeimlad o berthyn.

Er fy mod yn ystyried fy hun yn Gymraes, Saesneg yw fy iaith. Saesneg oedd iaith fy nghartref, fy ffrindiau a’r ysgol. Ddysgais i’r un gair o Gymraeg yn yr ysgol a chlywais i neb arall yn siarad Cymraeg. Fodd bynnag, pan es i i Goleg Plymouth yn 1997, fe wnes i ymdrech i ffitio mewn trwy geisio siarad yn fwy “Saesnig,” ond pharodd hynny ddim. 

Efallai nad ydw i’n siarad Cymraeg yn rhugl, ond gyda fy nhafodiaith o ardal y Cymoedd, mae fy hunaniaeth Gymreig yn rhan annatod ohonof i. Hyd yn oed ar ôl byw i ffwrdd am 28 mlynedd, dydw i ddim wedi colli fy ffordd o siarad. Fel maen nhw’n ddweud, ‘Fe allwch chi dynnu’r ferch allan o’r cwm, ond allwch chi ddim tynnu’r cwm allan o’r ferch’.

Tafodiaith de-ddwyrain Cymru dw i’n ei siarad, yr ardal ble ges i fy magu. Rydyn ni’n aml yn dweud pethau fel:

• “Whose jacket is that coat?”
• “Alright, love?”
• “Tidy butt.”
• “What’s bin doing?”
• “Do you want to sit by her, or over by there?”
• “Where is it to?”
• “Go on, mun.”

Mae’r ymadroddion hyn yn teimlo fel edafedd yn fy nghysylltu â’m gwreiddiau, ble mae’r Gymraeg yn sibrwd trwy eiriau Saesneg, gan siapio nid yn unig y geiriau ry’n ni’n eu hyngan ond hanfod ein hunaniaeth ni fel Cymry sy’n siarad Saesneg. Eto i gyd, mae’n anodd osgoi teimlad o anghyfiawnder a thristwch fy mod wedi tyfu i fyny heb siarad fy ngwir famiaith, y Gymraeg. Ni fu’n rhwydd dysgu’r iaith nawr—nid i mi nac i fy mam, gan nad yw ieithoedd erioed wedi dod yn naturiol i ni. Mae fy mhlant, fodd bynnag, yn rhugl, ac mae’n fy llenwi â balchder i’w gweld yn cofleidio’r hyn a fu ar goll i mi a fy mam. Mae fy mam a minnau’n dal i ddysgu, gam wrth gam, wedi’n hysbrydoli gan ruglder y genhedlaeth nesaf.

Gwisgo dy Stori: Gŵn Trawma

Yn ystod ein sgyrsiau, gofynnodd Adéọ́lá gwestiwn a drawodd dant â mi: “Sut wyt ti’n gwisgo dy stori?” Cwestiwn euraid, a sbardunodd syniadau. Mae’n bosib ei bod hi’n gofyn sut rydw i’n ymgorffori fy stori trwy symudiad, fel gwneuthurwr yn ogystal â pherfformiwr, ond yn reddfol fe ddehonglais y cwestiwn mewn ffordd lythrennol a gweledol—gan ddychmygu sut gellid cyfleu fy stori mewn gwisg ar gyfer perfformiad.

O’r sgwrs hon, ganwyd syniad y “gŵn trawma”. Yn ystod fy amser yn y stiwdio, dechreuais archwilio’r cysyniad hwn. Tynnais ei amlinelliad ar ddalennau mawr o bapur, gan dorri twll i fy mhen fel y gallwn ei wisgo fel dilledyn, gan adael yr ochrau ar agor. Peintiais fy mhrofiadau a’m hemosiynau ar bapur gan ddefnyddio paent dyfrlliw, inc, a beiro, gan ganiatáu i ystumiau greddfol a’r llif o liwiau grisialu’r hyn na allai geiriau mo’i wneud. Ochr yn ochr â’r mynegiant gweledol hwn, defnyddiais bedal lleisiol i greu seinwedd haenog.

Fe archwiliais i gyffyrddiad trawsnewidiol sain fel meddyginiaeth a mynegiant creadigol, gan ganolbwyntio ar y cysylltiad arbennig rhwng y llais a’r groth. Mae’r llais yn arf pwerus ar gyfer bioadborth, yn gallu lleoli a dod ag ymwybyddiaeth i drawma sydd wedi’i storio yn y corff. Trwy leisio bwriadol, mae sain yn dod yn gyfrwng artistig ac yn ymarfer therapiwtig, gan gynnig ffordd o brosesu emosiynau a’u trawsnewid yn allbwn creadigol.

Daeth yr archwiliad hwn yn ymarfer creadigol hynod o drochol, drwy gyfuno celf weledol â seinweddau lleisiol.