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Category: Y3

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Composition Research Continued

The Corvidae family, that includes Crows, Ravens, Rooks, Jays and Magpies, as well as Jackdaws, have powers of abstraction, memory, and creativity that are some of the strongest among birds, even rivalling that of many mammals. Corvids are well known creatures that show up time and time again in various myths and folktales throughout history. For the Native Tsimshian peoples of the Pacific Northwest Coast of North America, the Raven is a central figure in their creation myth, representing an intermediary between the physical and spiritual realms. In the Tsimshian genesis, when all lived in darkness, it was the Raven who spread light throughout the world. Disguised as a pine needle and consumed by the chief’s daughter, the Raven was reborn as her son. With its newfound innocence, the raven-turned-boy was able to beguile his grandfather into unlocking the closely guarded chests that held the sun, the moon, and the stars (Barbeau, Marias and Beynon, 1987, pp. 14–15). In the ancient syncretic philosophical Hindu text, the Yogavasistha, the Crow is an “immortal sage-like Crow who lives in a tree on Mount Meru where he witnesses the creation and dissolution of the universe, a succession of epochs in the earth’s history, and the birth and death of suns and moons, as described in Hindu cosmology” (Dangers, 2022). In such examples of Corvid mythology, these birds are imbued with a metamorphic divinity – as agents of cosmic transformation.

In more recent European history however, Corvids have become more associated with thievery and death, most likely due to their scavenging traits and their ability to “engage in mourning rituals when a member of their flock dies” (Dangers, 2022). In recent history a group of crows has even been referred to as a ‘murder’!! In Richard Harris Barham’s 19th century poem ‘The Jackaw of Rheims’ the Jackdaw is portrayed as a scavenging thief that takes off with the Cardinal’s precious ring. Upon returning it, the bird becomes a beacon of divine retribution, and a warning against the temptations of material possessions, human vanity and corruption.

If any one lied,–or if any one swore,–
Or slumber’d in pray’r-time and happen’d to snore,
That good Jackdaw
Would give a great “Caw!” (Barham, 1837)

In light of the absolved Jackdaw’s newfound piety, it is made a saint by the poem’s end and canonised by the name of Jim Crow. This coincides with the same period of time in which the term ‘Jim Crow’, popularised by Thomas Dartmouth Rice in his blackface performances, was being used as a collective racial epithet for black people. There is no direct evidence that shows an intentional link between Barham’s ‘Jim Crow’ and Rice’s character, but the resonance is an interesting one to consider. In both examples the character of ‘Jim Crow’ is an exaggerated representation of human stereotypes, on one hand a display of religious sanctity and human purity born against the supposed foolish and inherently villainous nature of the Jackdaw, and on the other a figurehead of white superiority used to rationalise and deepen African American inequality. Interestingly so, corvids have co-evolved along-side predators. Through this symbiotic relationship crows were able to aid ancient humans locate prey, in return gaining access to the remains of their food. Thus their cultural significance as scavengers today are built on thousands of years of co-evolution. Perhaps then, our applications of thievery to Jackdaw behaviour are a result of our detachment and disenchantment from the ecological world – the same world responsible for shaping us.

Mytho-poetic inquiry might help us challenge our civilisational myopia, and understand the more-than-humans outside of our anthropocentric preconceptions. Perhaps I’ve been trying too hard to intellectualise that initial encounter with those Nonsuch Jackdaws. When first experiencing their deafening chorus and sunset murmurations I felt an openness to the world around me, a feeling of presence I had not experienced in some time. In this numinous encounter I not only saw them or merely heard them, but rather entered into relationship with them, into another mode of being that surrendered to the ambiguity of the sensuous. Looking back I could say those Jackdaws became messengers, archetypes of the collective shadow, surpassing their biological identity by becoming mirrors of my own pysche. The deeper I experienced them, the more I let go, and through this undoing of perception, the more they revealed parts of me to myself. A mytho-poetic alchemy in which the outer world reflects the inner, and vice versa. This exchange of energy might be said to arise from the implicate order of the world: a deeper interconnected reality where everything is enfolded within everything else, as proposed by David Bohm (1989), contributor to theoretical physics, philosophy of mind, and neuropsychology. By embracing a larger narrative, fueled by a tacit awareness of the implicate order, the jackdaws became drenched in personal meaning. Bohm describes this ‘active meaning making’ as an “explication of a more inconspicuous form of meaning that is called into consciousness through its relationship to the implicate order” (Ruebsaat, 2013). In allowing the Jackdaws to become key players in our conception of self, a portal opens to the unconscious. Entering into this relationship then is an act of archetypal activism; a reclamation of one’s agency that emerges through some qualitative resonance with the ‘other’. Thus, we might say the self, and the dynamic process of ‘becoming’, in the Deleuzian sense, are unified within the implicate order, and expressed, or individuated in the explicate. This is the essence of embodiment.

Reflection is the true seeing; the root of seeing through, when one can apprehend the archetypal being revealed in an event or story. One can then hear the archetypal image voicing beneath the myth as it sings and flickers through for one to engage actively (Ruebsaat, 2013).

Mythopoetics provides the spinal cord along which all my ideas have found their natural alignment. It is the exploration of jackdaw as archetype, catalysed by my experience of them, that prompts the ‘naked ear’, able to listen in spite of one’s preconceptions, and in doing so, reflects ourselves back to ourselves – as a result there arises a deepening and unveiling of the self. Much like meditation, where we give ourselves permission to let thoughts and emotions pass through us without judgement, I propose that any ‘more-than-human’ encounter offers that same space of openness and receptivity that enables one to integrate different aspects of their psyche. And yet, even as I recreate their mythology, Jackdaws remain as agents of transformation.

A marriage of depth pyschology, phenomenology, deleuzian ‘becomings’ and mythopoetic inquiry – but what does this look, or sound like as a creative composition? The visuals are already well underway and offers a visceral collage of the liminal layers of perception. Phenomenologically speaking, I hope to represent the source of our subconscious preconceptions through this. Using fast paced imagery, the visual element will aim to entrance the watcher in a dreamlike state, within which the subconscious recalls, and speaks to us through, the obscurity of experience. This will act as the backdrop to the soundscape composition. But how do I translate the Jackdaw-as-archetype – as agents of transformation – into a musical and sonic context? In order to adhere to both ‘ecological consciousness’ and psychological transformation I will utilise both raw field recordings, manipulated field recordings, and composed music. Instead of creating an entire world of sound, drawing from endless libraries of samples, I will instead set myself the challenge of only using my own field recordings. This include jackdaws, the dawn and dusk chorus, water as a symbol of fluidity (much like Deleuze and Guattari’s idea on becoming), and the church bells of Nonsuch Park. I will start the piece with these bells, tolling predictably, to represent the hourly march of time, of control. This is echoed in Schafer’s denotation of the bell as an anthropocentric signal delineating the boundaries of a town or city. This could work well over static, geometric city-like imagery to further invoke the feeling or order, separation, or the known world. The seven bells will also signify the start of sunset, in which the encounter begins, as the jackdaws murmurate before settling to roost. From here I will introduce the sound of the jackdaws slowly, accompanied by a string ensemble. As the encounter grows I might use violins to replicate, and even replace the voices of the jackdaws, to signify growing enchantment – as the chatterings grow more and more cacophonous, I will switch in and out of violin-as-jackdaw and actual jackdaw sounds, even overlapping the two, to tread the line of both phenomenological experience and reciprocal becoming; as stringed instruments and jackdaws become indistinguishable there should be a culmination of transformative resonance, where jackdaw and self are no longer separate. As murmurations begin, the score will grow in depth. To sustain the continuous process of seeing/ hearing past the fog of preconception, an ongoing tension of continuous becoming will be delivered by the continued manipulation of jackdaw voices, drifting in and out of mythic engagement, phenomenological reality, and projected distortions. Time might slow down in places (bird against bird?) – a warping of time when encountering a perceived divinity, of self, or other. Bowed textures could mimic both air currents, murmurations, in the spirit of Jon Hassell (particularly his use of the trumpet to recreate the feel of a ‘Rising Thermal’ in his album Fourth World Vol 1 Possible Musics). I might also explore other extended techniques such as sul pont, harmonics, or scratch tones. I’ve even thought of using Jackdaw voices as mediators of resonator controls representing an implicate order – creating an organic ever-evolving ambience. I’ve thought to use my own voice too, perhaps whispers, audible, yet just out of reach, as if something is being communicated but it is impossible to tell what. This is all only meant as a loose structure for what I might call an audiovisual poem. The aim is to make audible the process of deconstructing anthropocentric listening, revealing not only the jackdaws, but our inner-workings through them. An entangled listening as a form of spiritual and psychological alignment.

We often don’t have the language, or indeed the mental syntax, for the intuited unknown and so we’re obliged to reach into and employ the poetic mind. This mind enables us better to explore nascent truths that aren’t yet tangibly manifested (Ruebsaat, 2013).

Bibliography

Barbeau, M. Marias and Beynon, W., 1987. Tsimshian narratives: Volume 1: Tricksters, shamans, and heroes. J.J. Cove and G.F. MacDonald (eds.). Ottawa: University of Ottawa Press.

Barham, R.H. 1837. The Jackdaw of Rheims. Family Stories, Bentley’s Miscellany, IV. London: R. Bentley. AP 4 B38, Robarts Library.

Bohm, D. 1989. Meaning and information. In: P. Pylkkänen, ed. The search for meaning: the new spirit in science and philosophy. Toronto: HarperCollins Canada.

Buxton, N. 2006. The crow and the coconut: Accident, coincidence, and causation in the Yogavāsiṣṭha. Philosophy East and West, 56(3), pp.392–408

Dangers, D. 2022. Crow & Crone: Twin archetypes. Feathers and Folktales. 7 September. Available at: https://feathersandfolktales.com/diemdangersblogposts/crow-and-crone-twin-archetypes [Accessed 15 Apr. 2025].

Ruebsaat, S. 2013. What does a mythopoetic inquiry look like? SFU Educational Review, 6. Available at: https://doi.org/10.21810/sfuer.v6i.372

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Composition Research

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?

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Pembroke Academy Workshop Reflection

Its safe to say that the workshop didn’t go as I envisioned, but it was a huge learning experience. In hindsight, taking on such a big idea all on my own was a task in itself and I feel as if I focused on the technical side of things a little too much. As a result the structure of the workshop felt a little loose, something I’m now realising is not always the best thing when working with children. The aim was to both introduce the students to soundscape studies, leading onto an exploration of animal phenomenologies and communication using various midi controllers. I think my mind ran away with me a bit here, attempting to record an entire group soundscape composition. Cristina helped immensely in leading the somatic activities, but without enough clear dialogue between us it became more of an exercise to keep the children entertained/ busy until it was their go to explore the Ableton push. I think through this workshop I’ve discovered that the more active bodywork was, though attractive, not entirely necessary. Attempting to tie this in with soundscape composition and the study of animal communication watered down the overall takeaways of the workshop. Sometimes less is more! If there is another opportunity soon I now know to focus solely on one of these aspects to give a more enriched and focused experience. Technical difficulties played a part too, with the Ableton project malfunctioning, resulting in the Push becoming unresponsive. The resonator midi control was also not quite obvious enough in its touch receptivity. I think I planned the workshop from the standpoint of my own compositional aesthetics, as opposed to putting myself in the shoes of young students with no experience of electronic music making. Feedback issues with the microphone used to record found sounds also posed an issue and so this station had to be discarded. The idea was grand, but I overlooked the reality of the logistics. On a plus note, during the second session I immediately adapted and simplified the workshop, focusing solely on the Ableton push, without attempting to record anything – more so to familiarise the children with midi controllers and animal phenomenologies at the same time. This was quite effective. I wonder what exercises I could create using this. Perhaps crafting compositional instructions using those field recordings. This would require a fair few Ableton pushes, and most probably would have to be a series of longer workshops. Something to think about! On the whole a very necessary experience. Back to the drawing board…

A pre-experiment workshop with George – This actually worked really well (a more intimate approach that used headphones as opposed to a group composition)
The resonator mapped midi controller
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Experiential Filmmaking

The more likeable cousin of its better known cousin the carrion crow…

most of them have started migrating away…

thinking on the soundscape composition??? what does a murmuration sound like…?

Mics and mic techniques used so far/ experiential mic techs/ dolby atmos course earlier/ 5.1 in headphones instead of multichannel/ soundscape composition – Hildegard Westerkamp – experiential filmmaking Paul Clipson/ super 8/ koyaanisqatsi/ bruce?/ brakhage/ making a timeline


I looked up and saw the sky glimmering in th reflection of the highrise windows on the other side of the street – the sun illuminated this mirage, hidden itself though behind the concrete bearings between the window frames, hidden in form, but present in its illumination – man made structures that allow me to even glimpse the sky, hidden away from it – second hand experience – or first hand? whats going on there? it slowly moves across the building, the small cross section of illumination passing slowly across these synthetic surfaces. would i have noticed this if not my the research im doing now? – sun spots in my eyes – the world is coloured by our experience – our life world – we never see the world as it is – for what is the world? if not something we cannot grasp in its entirety – we are but one component of it – its intersubjectivity. we move through the world wearing tinted glasses – with enough practice or knowledge of it, we catch moments in which we become more aware, even fully aware of this phenomenon – though we can never fully escape it – how do i get this across through sound and image ?

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Mutual Transformations

Its been a while since I’ve made a blog post, caught up in the whirlwind that is the dissertation. Writing it however has in fact helped me along quite a bit with my creative ideas. Last I blogged, it was following a fairly spectacular and serendipitous encounter with a vast clattering of jackdaws. This exchange of energy, between jackdaw and I, is what I have come to think of as a ‘mutual transformation‘; an intersubjective result of our encounters with ‘the more than human world’; I’m still fleshing out exactly what this means. As it stands, this concept speaks to the change in agency one might experience when faced with such encounters, the kind that fixes you to the present moment, a beckoning to realise your body as not only sensitive, but a sensible make up of another’s life-world. Still, I find there are so many blurred lines to tread here. These encounters can’t possibly effect the long term agency of, say, a bird, and so I am reduced to thinking that any immediate transformation is confined to the human subject. In my dissertation I conclude that these transformations become mutual in the sense that any emotional shifts might result in a changed attitude towards the very object of our symbolic interpretations, changing its long term future. I suppose the transformation I seem captivated by is one that pertains to the psychology of a human being, in our paradoxical tendencies to abstract and rationalise. A bird need not be changed in such a way as they are driven by instinct, thus any inherent potentiality associated with it is concluded by its biological rhythms. Our complex nervous systems confuses the potentiality of a human. But without getting too lost in logical fallacies, inconsistencies and contradictions, the most important thing to explore in my creative endeavours for now is the ‘more-than-human encounter‘ as some kind of portal – one that somehow links the experiential and the symbolic as two equal players in a deeper, more holistic understanding of the world, and our place within it.

To note, despite the ‘more-than-human’ emphasis, I do believe that such transformations occur regardless of one’s species taxon, thus what transpires with the jackdaws becomes only a more potent, symbolic, and even archetypal happenstance of something one can experience in the mundane – is there a danger in overlooking the everyday if one only seeks the extraordinary? Perhaps it is not so much a return to the ordinary, but perceiving the extraordinary within it. As a result, mutual transformations become as all encompassing and omnipresent as the air itself, whereby all interactions with the animate and inanimate are opportunities to change the way we understand and interact with the world; Not a canvas for our corporeal brushstrokes or mental projections, but an embodied reflection of something more internal. I realise here that I start entering into psychological, and even what feels to me sometimes as religious, territory, and though I have an intuitive grip on what I mean, I don’t think I’m prepared just yet to concretise it in words. But it is not dissimilar from the determinations of humankind throughout history – the hermetic adage ‘as above so below’ comes to mind. Either way, those Jackdaws, and their deafening chorus, symbolised something to me in that moment underneath the trees. Much like when looking at an incredible view at a high altitude, looking up at them made me feel a similar sense of awe, clarity, insignificance or what have you. In such moments, it only becomes more obvious how experience reveals the colours we imbue onto the world. A door opens to a clearer view of the self, and by default, reality. I feel that the way I unpack this exchange of energy concerns those unseen things – occult, not so much the political or the material, but the unspoken things of the feeling fabric. These are the forces cast aside by logic, defined by what is measurable, yet they persist in shaping experience. And by default, they become the root of all politics and culture, moving beneath the surface like currents beneath the tide, unseen but undeniable.

Over the weeks I have frequented Nonsuch Park, always just before sunset, staying until dusk. This, it seems, is the best time to record the jackdaws as they all gather and murmurate during the penumbra of twilight, before settling down to roost. I’ve become well acquainted with their gathering location, as well as their loose trajectory from tree to tree. Overtime its become easier to judge where to be, to experience their chatter and flight optimally. Sometimes their presence eludes me, while at others I am gifted with their closeness. Following them from tree to tree sometimes feels like a chase, other times a dance – though to them perhaps I am only an annoying human! Sometimes I wonder whether they recognise me. Whether they understand me as a part of their ‘more-than-jackdaw’ world? A waddling human, sometimes draped in cables, tracking their movements like a persistent and curious child. At times, especially those where the sun has disappeared from view, my vision muted by the onset of darkness, they become inseparable from the trees they line, appearing to me as the silhouettes of leaves. So much so that, while searching for them in the woods, I am startled with fright when they all spring into flight, leaping in a hundred directions from the branches of overhead trees. That sight though, is quite something to behold. As if the leaves themselves shapeshift into birds, unclothing their resident tree. Its worth mentioning that these critters chatter a lot – a talkative bunch. Sometimes they pervade the soundscape with their harsh ‘tchacks!’ and ‘kyas!’ Other times they serve as a soft backdrop to the songs of other, more solitary birds.

Key words : animism, phenomenology, encounters

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On Jackdaws

A few months ago, on a visit to Nonsuch Park with Reggie (my family’s Jack Russell), I had a profound encounter with a flock of Jackdaws. Emerging out of a wooded area, I came upon an empty field. I was quite mentally distracted by the events that had transpired over the previous week. At first, so caught up in these ruminations, I failed to register the vast assembly to my right. But as my ears pricked up, attention caught by a wall of fluttering voices, I was left to behold what seemed like hundreds of Jackdaws perched on a great big oak tree about 15 metres from me. I stood gawping at the sight for a good 5 minutes I think, till Reggie started whining for my attention; I assume after having enough of trying to figure out what the hell had frozen me in time. When I say the entire tree, I mean the entire tree. I can’t recall ever having seen anything like this, or at least not processing it in the way I had in that moment. On visits to Nonsuch park following this, I now carried with me an unwavering awareness of their presence. I would find myself gravitating to them on every visit, following their incessant chatter. If lucky enough I would catch glimpses of them in flight, murmurations of sorts, although not quite as magnificent as videos I have seen of starlings at sunset. Still, enough to fix me in the present moment. It bewilders me how I had never truly noticed them before. I actually mistook them for Starlings at first, mixing up various field recordings of their calls I had taken, mis-assigning them. I did a lot of research into when and where to view these murmurations in full bloom. I learnt these aerial displays happen mainly in autumn and winter (October to March), peaking around November to January (before the birds migrate to other parts of the world), and just before sunset or at sunrise. The best locations to view this all involved a fair drive, and with a lot of other commitments on my plate I hadn’t made the time or effort to attempt the journey. I decided to rent a camcorder from LCC, to give myself more reason to. The day after was a clear, sunny day, and at around 5pm spontaneity struck. I packed the camera and a Rode NTG and decided to keep my first attempt modest by visiting Nonsuch Park instead. I had never gone there for this sole reason, and familiar with the unpredictability of nature, I was prepared for a failed trip (I should note that a few weeks prior I visited in the middle of the day with a bunch of microphones on a mission to record them and failed miserably due to the weather turning). What occurred however was far beyond my expectations. Expecting less, yet receiving more is always a reminder that life’s best moments are often unanticipated. On returning home, I wrote a poetic recount of my experience. I also drafted together a rough montage of footage I captured alongside a score inspired by the Jackdaws’ movements (I’m still working on my camcorder skills).

Ill never forget that moment, 
Stood underneath the leafless canopy, 
Branches decorated with the silhouette of a thousand Jackdaws,
Their presence all encompassing, 
Chorus deafening,
A shrill symphony of a world only known to me in this moment of unshakeable awe. 

Overcome by sound, 
Everything falls away, 
They dance in groups among the treetops, 
Suites of them flitting from one tree to the next,
Their incessant chatter rain down on me from above, 
Pervading the entire soundscape.
I am grateful for moments like these,
Those that free us of our worldly ties. 

An endlessness broken in a flash, 
sweeping and thunderous movement through the sky,
I start running for the clearing, 
Stumbling over upturned roots, 
Tearing myself through bramble, 
Catching glimpses through the trees,
My heart quickens at the thought of their retreat, 
Aware that I move on their terms, 
At the mercy of their whims. 

And then I see it, 
The forest at my back, 
The sky peeled before me,
It is one thing, 
One form, 
Even if only so to my sensible confines, 
No longer a thousand. 

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Cyanotype Workshop

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)
Indigo Moon and White Moon

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.

Results of today’s workshop
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Visual Entry – Lichens Of Borrowdale

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Borrowdale Forest + Foraging for Lichen

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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Cyanobacteria vs Cyanotype printing

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.

The cyanotype artist’s business card that I’ve held onto