Ed Atkins, Post-it Notes, and the Fluency We Can’t Fake

At Ed Atkins’ new show at Tate Britain, I found myself standing in front of a wall covered in Post-it notes, thinking about language learning.

Not the kind of thought I expected to have, surrounded by creepy CGI avatars and immersive sound design. But there it was.

The Post-its—more than 700 of them—were made during lockdown for Atkins’ young daughter. Tiny drawings and scribbled thoughts, they’re a kind of love letter in miniature. Compared to the slick, emotionally complex digital videos he’s known for, these are raw, small, handmade. They feel immediate. Honest. Embarrassingly human.

And they speak—quietly but insistently—to something many language learners understand: the struggle to express what really matters.

Atkins’ videos are technically brilliant, but often haunted by a sense of emotional displacement. In Pianowork 2, a digital version of himself plays a slow, minimalist piano piece with eerie precision. It’s haunting. It’s uncanny. And it feels like it’s all happening one step removed from life. The performance is convincing, but it doesn’t breathe.

Learning a new language can sometimes feel like putting on a costume. You spend time perfecting the accent, drilling phrases, constructing sentences that are grammatically sound—but something feels off. You’re saying the right things, but they don’t quite sound like you. The spontaneity, the personality, the emotional texture—all the things that make communication feel alive—can vanish under the weight of trying to get it “right.”

It’s not that practice or precision are the problem. They’re essential. But if all you focus on is control, you risk becoming like one of Atkins’ digital avatars: technically flawless, but emotionally distant. You perform the role of a fluent speaker, yet somehow stay one step removed from the experience of actually being one.

This is especially true when learners feel they must erase their accent, flatten their identity, or mimic native-like models to be taken seriously. In doing so, they may lose not just confidence, but voice.

That’s why Atkins’ Post-it notes struck such a chord. They offer the opposite energy: informal, imperfect, deeply personal. They’re full of uncertainty, humour and affection. A drawing dashed off in biro can sometimes carry more emotional truth than a rendered avatar ever could. In the same way, a halting, heartfelt sentence—spoken with vulnerability—is often more powerful than a perfectly rehearsed line. They remind us that fluency isn’t just about accuracy; it’s about emotional truth.

So what does this have to do with the classroom?

Everything. As educators and learners, we should be aiming for more Post-it moments—space for vulnerability, for playing with words, for expressing something real even when it’s messy. Because if Atkins’ work teaches us anything, it’s that mastery without connection can leave us stranded in our own performance.

Language isn’t just something we use—it’s something we live inside. And sometimes, a scribbled note says more than a perfect sentence ever could.

Daniel Studholme