Journal

Ive been making my way through Westerkamp’s essays on her website. Her ideas on soundscape composition are largely concerned with the sonic consequences of a place and its political, geographical, economical and ecological histories, as evidenced in her comparison of Brasilian and Indian soundscapes in her essay ‘Soundscapes of Cities’. In another one called ‘Speaking from Inside the Soundscape’, she expands on her idea of soundscape composition as an extension of Acoustic Ecology. To be inside the soundscape is to be aware of oneself as a component of it, rather than separate from it – i.e perceiver vs perceived. This, for her, becomes synonymous with the cultivation of an ecological consciousness. The recordist/ composer’s endeavour to increase the audience’s ecological consciousness through composed soundscape becomes increasingly important. Westerkamp places utmost importance on the indiscriminatory stance of the ‘microphone’, much like the nakedness and openess of the newborn ear, before lived experience makes it selective. Yet her methodology of prompting this openness, while aurally embodied, is largely concerned with the idea of literality – something I feel is not always necessary in order to successfully create a composition that is classed as activistic. Bridging different places of experience and inducing some resonance with the natural world, I believe, can be achieved through the imaginal mode. There comes a point where I become unsure of the lines I’m treading in terms of agency and ownership, especially in regards to those more than human voices that are central to this conversation. Navigating this entangled blur from the standpoint of purity is quite impossible, and perhaps where I’ve been going wrong. Instead of trying to adhere to every opinion I should instead let each inform my own instincts. I think the particular boundary I am referring to – that threshold in which ecological consciousness truly becomes a product of composition – is challenged best in this excerpt by Westerkamp:

Environmental sound is a type of language, a text. As well, the technology through which we transmit the sounds, has its own language, its own process. If we truly want to reveal meanings through recorded environmental sound and truly draw the listener inside these meanings, then we must transmit precise information and knowledge and demystify technologically hidden processes. When we have done something simple as condensing the duration of a dawn chorus in order to fit it into a pre-determined time frame on a CD, let’s say that and how we have done it. Let’s name the voices of the place, let’s mention the weather for example or the season, the landscape, the social and natural context. Or let us at least be clear about the inherent confusion about time and place when we work with environmental sound.

Thinking on my work so far, I wonder how much precise information to transmit. Most of what I have recorded so far is that of jackdaws, as well as the inevitable occurence of other sounds such as aircraft, traffic, other birdsong, and people. Each recording in of itself could be a composition that prompts a discussion into the inherent interconnectivity of the environment in relation to the jackdaws, and even myself as recordist. This seems to me like the ecological consciousness westerkamp proposes. Given that the nature of my work is concerned mainly with animism however, the imagination becomes integral to bridging the gap between the psychological and the physical. I get the sense that refashioning the sonic material to tell a sort of sonic fiction can still maintain an awareness of their provenance and relevance in an ecological context. Im reminded of Hector’s lecture on Sonic Fiction. Though I haven’t followed up much on this idea in terms of research, I remember him saying that this concept might be be viewed as a resistance to the banality and repressiveness of modernity. The imagination then becomes a powerful tool that challenges the status quo – in creating more reciprocal futures, and giving agency back to the individual. As long as this agency is concerned with honouring and amplifying the voices of the natural world, then this to me seems both ecologically conscious, as well as imaginatively empowering.

Something interesting that just occurred to me is the power of creative soundscape composition to change how the listener interacts with their soundscape. Someone recently told me that, after listening to an environmental soundscape recreation I had made, they become more aware of the birdsong around them, hearing their song with a renewed intensity. Though this soundscape was an inaccurate, somewhat exaggerated recreation of the actual habitats recorded, its ability to affect her in this way still remained.

Hildegard Westerkamp herself says:

Ideally, if we have managed to strike a chord in our listeners, the listening experience will re-emerge as valuable memory and information at a later point, or it will encourage listeners to visit, hear and experience first hand the original place or situation of which the work speaks…
Then we have come full circle. The work has created the naked, open ear in the listener, a curious ear that has moved him or her into action, into interaction with the soundscape…
But the “naked ear” of the microphone can achieve a wakefulness in our listening that has a direct influence on how we speak with environmental sounds through our compositions and productions. A new balance between recording/listening and composing/soundmaking can be achieved.

If her concept of the ‘naked ear’ is meant to foster an openness to sound in its rawness, allowing the listener to connect with the soundscape without the usual layers of interpretation or selective hearing, does this allow for the manipulation of audio for aesthetic reasons, or the inclusion of musical interpretation? In her work ‘Beneath the Forest Floor’ all of the sounds used, though manipulated, were recorded in the old-growth forests on British Columbia’s westcoast, moving the listener through visible forest, “into its’ shadow world, its’ spirit; into that which effects our body, heart and mind when we experience forest.” A beautifully rhythmic piece that does what it sets out to. Elements of musicality do appear however, and her dedication to using only field recordings as creative material appears to me as nothing more than a compositional challenge, though I’m sure she would argue differently. If she had actually used instruments to achieve the results given, and falsely claimed them as manipulated versions of original recordings, no-one would be none the wiser. What is most important in my opinion, is that the musical element successfully props up the rest of the composition in an appropriate way. Maybe I am simply trying to find an excuse to exercise my ability as a musician, but I do feel that the actual intention to move someone, is far more important than achieving the kind of restrictive purity in westerkamp’s compositions. Perhaps it is just a matter of personal values.

Some of the challenges I am faced with is that my work does not intend to be completely site specific, like Beneath the Forest Floor. The sounds of Nonsuch Park, and its jackdaws, are meant more as catalysts for a wider conversation into the emotional undercurrents of perception. In my improvisatory filmmaking I have captured everything from shadows to eyes, reflections of light, fluid movement, windows, shapes and textures of the city, and a whole host of other liminal, ‘in between’ moments that affect our perception of the world around us. These seemingly invisible forms clothe the ear. I think these moving images will underlay the sound of the jackdaws, without needing to be sounded themselves. (The opposite of schizophonic? Seen but not heard?). This hopefully will induce an awareness of the source of our preconceptions, in visceral form – those that colour our encounters with the more than human world. Still, I need to figure out how this all leads to a mutual transformation. Too many ideas maybe!

Regarding the actual composition, I have thought about only using the jackdaw recordings as material, as well as the church bells of nonsuch that ring every hour and have become an integral part of my sonic experience of the park. But I don’t know how to introduce enough variation into the piece. The whole piece should describe the encounter with the jackdaws, as a sort of epiphany in which one no longer hears them in relation to external preconceptions, but rather as a deeper exploration of self. By engaging with the nakedness of Westerkamp’s ear, one should feel more able to ask what it is that is truly going on internally when experiencing such visceral more than human encounters. Maybe its about changing the traditional symbolism of corvids as representing death and thievery as an element of mutual transformation. In overcoming these stories passed down, we allow ourselves to interact with these creatures as not an extension of human projection, but subjectivities in their own right. Ironically, despite their historical associations they are one of the most populous groups of birds, thriving in number unlike other more endangered birds. Still, through this ‘mytho-poetics’, we equip ourselves with the ability to alter other stories we have told that might have negative consequences on the welfare of our environment… potentially?

I went to a day-long Cyanotype Workshop led by Adam Hogarth today and it was an eye-opening experience. I experimented with scanned photos, as well as overlaid sketches on tracing paper. The results weren’t quite what I’d hoped for, but in the process of trying and failing I’ve become more acquainted with what works and what doesn’t. I’ve learnt that when using found objects, such as the lichen in this case, they need to be 2d to get the best results. I’ve been thinking about outsourcing an industrial pressing machine in order to flatten any thicker/ harder bits of lichen I might forage/ buy.

Another thing to note was our introduction to Anthotype printing, which is an image development process very similar to Cyanotype printing. The only difference between the two is the liquid used, on which the images are printed. Instead of using Ferric ammonium citrate and potassium ferricyanide, as one would for cyanotypes, the liquid is made by using plant dyes (photosensitive pigments in plants); It involves crushing/ blending plant material and diluting with water, before brushing onto a chosen surface. Depending on the plant material used (e.g. turmeric or spinach), different results will be attained. As opposed to the Prussian Blue colour associated with cyanotypes, this method can result in various shades and hues of greens and browns. If any photosensitive/ plant material/ dye can be used to make up this solution, then It would be interesting to see the outcome of a lichen-based one (also used as a traditional dye).

Moreover, one of the other students in todays class showed me the cyanotype prints of Japanese artist Mika Horie, whose approach I found quite relevant to my work. By using sunlight to develop her prints (as opposed to UV lightbulbs in controlled settings), hand-made gampi paper, and water from nearby streams to fix the images, her process demonstrates an unwavering loyalty to her natural environment. Quoted directly from a synopsis of her work ‘Perfectly Imperfect’: Horie Mika (1984)‘, we are told that “Trees, water and light are the main elements that Horie uses to create her artworks.” This embodiment of these more-than-human, animate bodies in her work is deeply participatory with the natural world and counters the extractive, mass produced practices of our modern day ‘technosphere’. The reliance on these ever-shifting, indeterminate bodies, brings a level of uncertainty to her work, as textures created are out of her control, and rather at the whims of these non-human features. And yet, these imperfections reflect the unpredictable nature of our sensory experience. I am reminded of a passage in David Abram’s ‘Spell of the Sensuous’ –

“For these other shapes and species have coevolved, like ourselves, with the rest of the shifting earth; their rhythms and forms are composed of layers upon layers of earlier rhythms, and in engaging them our senses are led into an inexhaustible depth that echoes that of our own flesh. The patterns on the stream’s surface as it ripples over the rocks, or on the bark of an elm tree, or in a cluster of weeds, are all composed of repetitive figures that never exactly repeat themselves, of iterated shapes to which are senses may attune themselves even while the gradual drift and metamorphosis of those shapes draws our awareness in unexpected an unpredictable directions.”

In contrast, the mass produced artefacts of civilisation, from milk cartons to washing machines to computers, draw our senses into a dance that endlessly reiterates itself without variation. To the sensing body these artifacts are, like all phenomena, animate and even alive, but their life is profoundly constrained by the specific ‘functions’ for which they were built. Once our bodies master these functions, the machine-made objects commonly teach our senses nothing further; they are unable to surprise us, and so we must continually acquire new built objects, new technologies, the latest model of this or that if we wish to stimulate ourselves”

(1996, p.64)

Horie has perhaps also arrived at such conclusions, stating:

“Wabi-sabi is simply the feeling of my daily life of creating. Each day I spend a significant amount of time catching its essence of tranquility, harmony, beauty and imperfection through shooting photos, making paper and cyanotype. I embrace the condition of gampi tree fiber, spring water and sunlight changing all the time. One day I realised that being surrounded by abundant nature has changed my mentality. I am getting to understand my imperfections.” 

Adam also introduced us to toning methods earlier today, using organic material that contains tannic-acid to colourise developed cyanotype prints. Such materials would include wine, green tea, coffee, etc. I’ll work on exploring these methods for now while improving my visual compositions. The beauty of this process is that, once the basic methods are known, it is easy to start coming up with all sorts of weird and wonderful ways to alter the end result. Another thing to note is that hydrogen peroxide can be used to speed up the process, as well as providing much deeper blues. Lastly, we were shown a few cyanotype, mixed media animations. These have inspired me to potentially include a ‘moving image’ style element to my final work. I am still at a bit of a cross-roads with where to take my current ideas for Portolio Element 1 and although todays workshop has helped move things along, I need to start having a serious think about the ideas I am trying to evoke, and the sonic medium that will most appropriately bring them to life.

Over the winter break I had the pleasure of spending a couple of days in the Cumbrian town of Cockermouth. The drive was hefty and seeing as I most likely wont be returning for the foreseeable future I decided to make the most of my trip by spending a day in the nearby Borrowdale Rainforest National Nature Reserve. It is one of England’s largest remaining temperate rainforests. The unique conditions of its ecosystem are maintained by the oceanic climate of the western coast of the UK, that allows for high levels of rainfall and humidity, and a temperate climate with relatively little changes in temperature year round. These characteristics make it an ideal location for epiphytic flora (Nonparasitic plants that grow on other plants) to attach themselves to every wet and porous surface as well as various types of ferns. Being an old growth forest, it has a well established mycelial network and is rich in bryophytes (mosses and liverworts).

“The Borrowdale Oakwoods are one of England’s largest remaining pieces of temperate rainforest that once spread from the north of Scotland down the west coast of England, Wales and Ireland and are part of a long standing cultural landscape.”

(National Trust, 2023)

Now recognised as ecologically significant the National Trust are aiming to reconnect these fragments of rainforests, in the hope of preserving this special habitat, in turn making them more resilient to the climate crisis. Vast swathes of temperate rainforest could once be found throughout a large portion of the UK. As a result its preservation also protects an important piece of British cultural history. Unfortunately the area of Britain covered by these forests currently stands at a mere 1% due to thousands of years of logging for timber, and clearance for farming and development.

My reasons for visiting concern the diverse array of lichen species that have specialised to live in this particular habitat, some of which have become rare throughout Europe and elsewhere. Being a beginner within such a multifaceted subject matter means that my identification skills will need a lot more field work to sharpen. As a result, my time spent in this forest felt more like a practical introduction to the world of lichen. Starting at Ashness Bridge I walked through the woodland, taking various field recordings along the way, eventually reaching and walking alongside the River Derwent. Despite the wintry nakedness of the forest canopy, the propensity of moss, lichen, ferns, streams and boulders in the understory imbued the landscape with an enchanting atmosphere, made all the more so by a blanket of frost that stretched on past the horizon. It is no surprise that these lush green forests inspired all sorts of British folklore throughout the ages.

My time here provided me with a good opportunity to test out my new field recording rig. The quick release gadget I’d recently purchased made switching between set-ups much easier. As a result I was able to quickly capture interesting sounds when on the go while also perching my mic stand in certain spaces. The latter meant I could stand a distance away while recording so as to not change the sonic characteristics of a place with my presence. Due to it being the height of winter however, there was not too much going on sonically in regards to wildlife. As a result I was drawn to the streams that ran down from the surrounding hills, through the forest, and into the Derwent Water. I quite enjoyed experiencing the sonic architecture of these babbling brooks up close, recording them from multiple different perspectives. I couldn’t help but think of Jana Winderen and Annea Lockwood while doing so. Although I would’ve been more than happy to go on exploring these bodies of water, after an hour or so I had to remind myself of my initial purpose here. Nevertheless, such bodies are a central feature of temperate rainforests, a lot of which are found on steep sided valleys like the one I was on, contributing to their wet and humid ecosystem; This felt reassuring.

At one point in the day I decided to give my hands a rest, and propped a mic stand in my bag so that a pair of mics in an ORTF configuration poked out the top, inspired by a similar example used by the … in the film SOA (Pictured Below). This allowed me to experiment with recording on the go in a different way, although this resulted in a lot of self-induced noise in the recordings. I also had some success recording the actual sounds of the Lichen themselves. Mainly working with Foliose (Leafy) and Fruticose (Bushy) Lichen, I used a Lom Geofon to record any vibrations and other hidden sounds. Having a contact mic handy might have also produced some interesting results but I was unable to acquire one in time. I was also able to record some watery movement in some of the Oak trees by inserting the Geofon into holes and gaps in their trunks. I assume these sounds are sap flowing up and down the tree’s vascular tissue (xylem and phloem vessels) but I can’t be certain. What these recordings assure us of however, is that their is most likely much more sonic activity in this forest that lie outside of our perceptive capabilities. Using such microphones offers a bridge to hearing these invisible worlds (thinking back again to an increased intimacy).

Ahead of this visit I emailed a member of the National Trust asking for permission to forage lichen. I was given the go ahead on the grounds that I only took small amounts of more common species, as well as only foraging from fallen branches or surrounding debris. I managed to attain a small collection of varying types, two of which I have identified as an Oak Moss (Evernia Prunastri) and a Beard Lichen (Usnea). Upon returning home I left them out to dry and secured them in airtight containers.

Footnotes

1. Borrowdale comes from the Norse Borger Dahl or ” Valley of the Fort”, the earlier Celts named the water here Derwent or “Abounding in Oaks”. Trees, and oaks in particular, were sacred to this early British culture and so such a valley would have surely been a significant destination. Oaks have remained a symbol of English culture and strength and it is by no accident that it forms the logo of the National Trust. Today, the oak woodland here still draws the local community and visitors from across the UK to come and spend some time in its peaceful and inspiring presence and should be protected as a piece of our collective cultural history.
2. These special places are even home to globally rare species, such as the hazel gloves fungus, which grows only on old hazel trees and looks like a bundle of rubbery orange fingers + Tree Lungwort, a large and leafy lichen that needs very clean air to survive.

Bibliography

National Trust. (2023). Borrowdale National Nature Reserve. [online] Available at: https://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/visit/lake-district/borrowdale-and-derwent-water/borrowdale-nnr [Accessed 10 Jan. 2025].

Wildlifetrusts.org. (2020). Temperate rainforest | The Wildlife Trusts. [online] Available at: https://www.wildlifetrusts.org/habitats/woodland/temperate-rainforest#:~:text=Bringing%20our%20temperate%20rainforests%20back,the%20carbon%20benefits%20it%20bestows. [Accessed 10 Jan. 2025].

Prior, N. (2024). How Wales’ ancient rainforests inspired folklore. [online] BBC News. Available at: https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-wales-68310929 [Accessed 10 Jan. 2025].

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On a trip to Brick Lane the other day I managed to buy some 35mm film for my camera in order to start consistent documentation of my process. The man behind the till kindly offered his advice and I ended up leaving with a roll of film that I didn’t intend on buying. Getting into a conversation about Lomography, he pointed me towards a roll of film that didnt produce quite the intensely coloured results as lomographic film, but was nevertheless still susceptible to light leaks. There might be some connection to be made between my choice to buy this film and the nature of my work, but I’ll leave it as mere serendipity for the time being. Another happy accident occurred right after however. My partner was having a conversation with a lady stood behind a stall of cyanotype prints. Cyanotype is a photographic printing process that produces a cyan-blue print and was invented in 1842 by Sir John Herschel, primarily for making copies of documents and for botanical illustrations. After talking to the lady myself, who turned out to be the artist too, I was intrigued by its simplicity, striking blue colours, and its potential for creative experimentation. At the start of the year, I came across a cyanotype printing workshop somewhere within the UAL ecosystem. Unfortunately, by the time I had discovered the workshop there were no spaces left, and I soon abandoned this minor interest. Being exposed to it for a second time made me do some extended research when returning home. In another stroke of synchronicity, and to my disbelief, I found out that cyano-bacteria is what gives lichen their blue-green colour. Despite this, the prefix ‘cyano’ is only used in both cases as it means ‘dark blue’ in Greek. Even though the purposes and contexts of cyanotype printing and cyano-bacteria are entirely different, their shared use of the prefix feels relevant to me somehow. Over and above this, as I proceed to learn about lichen biology, cyanotype printing stands out as a fun way to record foraged lichen, mirroring the actions of 19th century botanists. I’ve been thinking about how to bring a visual element to my final work, and this is definitely a process I will explore more of.