Category: Portfolio

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.

As a first response to the ideas entertained in my previous blog post I have made a soundscape composition of my trip to Tolworth Court Farm Fields. I do intend to return, several times hopefully, to the fields, exploring more aspects of its sonic architecture using different microphones and recording techniques. For now however, with the the Portfolio 1 deadline looming, I have used the limited amount of recordings attained from my last venture. I have called the piece ‘Resonant Threads’, invoking the idea that all sounds heard within this composition are connected, whether culturally, historically or sonically. Unlike the soundscape compositions I have heard by Winderen, Lockwood or Westerkamp, I have arranged the piece in a non linear way, in order to create a new version of the fields; One that is both removed from reality, but also born from it.

Using lichen as compositional inspiration, the Ambient bed is meant to represent slow growth; an endless passage of time. In the same way that the existence of lichen entails a symbiotic partnership of two separate organisms, a fungus and an alga, I also imagine that this ambience acts as a metaphorical link between all of the sonic elements heard. I have learnt now that the dominant partner in this relationship is the fungus however, giving the lichen the majority of its characteristics. This has already put holes in my concept. Though I could also consider this fact to mirror the inherent inequality of what can be heard, with certain voices having more of a platform than others in a soundscape, i.e. anthropophonic noises. I do not want to search for excuses that make this composition work however, as that would go against all that I have discussed in my blog posts. I feel that there is more to gleaned from the discussions that this piece might hopefully encourage. I am reminded of a sentence in an earlier blog post, “what we discover is related to the question we are asking”. It is not necessarily my aim to ask a question here, but rather to stimulate our attentive and imaginal ways of knowing.

Though it feels a little hollow at the moment, I am happy to present this as my prototype portfolio project – being only the first draft of many. I will make an effort from here on out to look more closely into lichenology and Symbiotic Behaviour Analysis. I am tempted to visit and field record some temperate rainforests too, characterised by their proliferation of lichen. Regarding my methodology, I have used a combination of granulators, accordion, guitar string harmonics, sine waves, resonators and cello to create a generative ambience to mimic the multiple interdependent layers and slow evolving patterns of lichen. I have also used convolution reverb on the bus track of all the field recordings to create an otherworldly feel as they drift in and out of one another. Other than this, field recordings have not been processed any more, except for a light EQ to attenuate sounds under 100hz and above 18khz, and to slightly boost sounds between 2- 5khz range to simulate the human ear’s sensitivity. When I think back now though, am I not just perpetuating our sensory limitations by doing this?

Looking back on my earlier sonified composition Forest Area Data Sonification Sound World I am starting to realise some similarities with my prototype portolio project. Although I hit a bit of wall with sonification, losing interest in it all too quickly after scratching the itch to explore its uses, I found the resulting composition quite enchanting to listen to. At the time, I discarded the idea that it contained anything useful, other than an appeal to my aesthetics. Though when listening back I realise it is full of meaning. An imagined world in its own right, both displaced from reality and very much a part of it. All of those endangered birds against a backdrop of sonified ambience creates an impossible forest. An inconceivable sonic world that might evoke feelings of both hope and despair. This idea of world building is something I am slowly gravitating towards. I cant find the exact album right now, but I remember reading in the footnotes to one of KMRU’s albums (ambient musician) that by blending field recordings from two places, a third imagined world is created. I can’t remember for the life of me what his personal philosophy on this entailed, but I do remember it resonating with my developing ideas. As I experiment with creating sound worlds in the coming months, I am sure that a sensitive touch will be of the utmost importance. Might such worlds increase our intimacy with otherness? Could they bring us to a new moment altogether, transport us even, allowing us access to new dimensions that offer infinite ways of knowing?

All of my research up to this point has put me in a better position to conceptualise my prototype portfolio project. Vinciane Despret’s concept ‘Poetics of Attention‘, that emphasises attentiveness, receptivity, and relationality in the way we perceive our environment, is one that gives form to a lot of my recent thought processes. On the other hand, the word ‘imaginal’, coined by American ecologist and philosopher David Abram, appeared to me first during my research for my dissertation in the book Gaia, Psyche and Deep Ecology by Andrew Fellows. In the book, Fellows’ uses Hillman’s statement that “Sensing the world and imagining the world are not divided in aesthetic responses of the heart” ( ) to propose that “sensing is the direct perception of Gaia by psyche, i.e., from one epistemic domain to the other, whereas imagination is a product of psyche informed by Gaia via the ontic realm, i.e., involving the soul and the world soul. If we can view a soundscape itself as a non-static process, then could we situate any perceived interconnectivity within this idea of ‘sensing Gaia’. Still, I want to maintain that the connections I draw between these varying fields of study are only propositions, designed to spark alternative ways of thinking that I myself have arrived at.

Seeking further clarification I sought out the book In The Spell of the Sensuous by Abram to understand better the concept of the imaginal. Referring to a mode of perception and experience that bridges the sensory and the symbolic, Abram draws on phenomenology and ecological thought to explore how the imaginal realm allows humans to engage with the world in a way that is deeply participatory, connecting us to the more-than-human environment. He claims that the imaginal is not merely fantasy or daydreaming but a vivid, embodied way of interacting with the world, shaped by stories, metaphors, and sensory encounters. Abram suggests that in oral and indigenous traditions, the imaginal plays a vital role in understanding and navigating one’s place within the web of life. It’s through this imaginative and sensuous engagement that humans perceive the animate nature of the world and establish reciprocal relationships with it, challenging modern, overly rational ways of knowing, advocating instead for a return to an animistic awareness that recognises the world as alive and richly communicative.

Returning to Fellows’ book, we find a quote by the physicists David Bohm and F. David Peat: “Metaphoric perception is, indeed fundamental to all science and involves bringing together previously incompatible ideas in radically new ways” (1987/2000)

“What is essential to this form is that in equating two very different kinds of things, the mind enters a very perceptive state of great energy and passion, in which some of the excessively rigid aspects of the tacit infrastructure are bypassed or dissolved. In science, as in many other fields, such a perception of the basic similarity of two very different things must further unfold in detail and lead to a kind of analogy which becomes ever more literal.”

Bohm & Peat, 1987/2000

When on a walk to the nearby Hogsmill nature reserve I came to a fallen tree. Its a landmark that I am very familiar with as it asks to be noticed; It is upturned, uprooted, covered in lichen and of a fairly big size giving it an almost arcane aura. Even though I have paused to stare at it for a few moments on several visits, it was out of nothing more than a sense of wonder. On this last visit however, most likely due to all the research I’ve been engaged with recently, I couldn’t help but feel the tree itself was ripe with metaphor. It is not only a ‘fallen tree’, but a habitat, a bridge, even perhaps an echo of a forgotten storm. The lichen in particular however, I feel is what has always drawn me to this tree. There is something quite beautiful about the way it occupies its trunk and branches – remnants of natures paintbrush. Perhaps I’m getting a little too carried away with poetic sentiment. Nevertheless, it has largely remained to me something I know nothing about, and using the cautionary tales of misappropriation found in Despret’s writings, I must remind myself to proceed carefully. A quick google search of lichenology tells me that a lichen is a composite organism consisting of a symbiotic partnership primarily between a fungus and an alga or cyanobacterium. They are slow growing and can colonise extreme environments like bare rocks, deserts, or the Arctic tundra. Themes of resilience and symbiosis immediately come to mind. Depending on one’s frame of mind, reckless attributions of mutualism or parasitism might be made to their inherent nature. I don’t know anywhere near enough to make any sort of bold statement in regards to the metaphors that might be inferred from these hybrid colonies of algae, but I am intrigued to know whether (much like in Living as a Bird) studying them, their similarities, differences and associations might increase my intimacy with them as a life-form. A subjectivity that exists out of the realm of my own understanding. Lichen, after all, do not sense in the same way we do, responding to light, humidity and temperature in their own specific ways.

Below are some black and white photos I took of the tree almost a year ago now. Its funny how an isolated photoshoot of a dead tree so long ago has somehow made its way back into my life, and in an entirely new context.

An idea is starting to form at this point in regards to my portfolio, but before I attempt to put it into words I thought I’d make a blog post on all of the practitioners that have inspired and directed my interests over the last few weeks. Annea Lockwood and her sound maps of various rivers has been something I have continuously returned to. After having visited Tolworth Court Farm Fields, I feel as if I am beginning to hear her works in a new light. In an interview with Cathy Lane, Lockwood describes the patterns and textures of rivers as ‘phrasings’ that are “not quite repetition but feels like it.” Could this be a reason why we are so magnetised to such sounds. A synergy we could entertain here is that we start life in amniotic fluid, and life itself too began underwater – although one we should approach with caution if we have learnt anything from Despret’s book. Interestingly so, Lockwood references an old Peruvian custom of taking patients who are mentally ill to sit by rivers for days. And yet it is not only rivers that have this calming effect on our temperament. The crackling sound of fire, birdsong, rain – all of these also produce the same sensations, some studies even proposing that certain naturally occurring sounds even reduce our blood pressure. Whether we equate these effects with evolutionary associations of safety, or the “soft fascinations” of natural stimuli posited by Attention Restoration Theory, the expressive force of nature is undeniable.

Listening again to ‘A Sound Map of the Danube’, every trickle, ripple and swell of water reveals the architecture of the riverbed itself, as well as the geological features of the surrounding landscape. Lockwood highlights that the cultural differences in the environment also feed into its intrinsic characteristic sound. Recognising this reminds me of Despret’s conclusions regarding differences, as a vehicle to connect. The soundscapes Lockwood creates prompts us to, not only reconsider the source of each sound, but to continue tracing these sources back as far as our imagination might allow us. Her sustained engagement with the River Hudson also gave way to conversations with those whose lives were inextricably linked with the river. Hearing their personal stories and memories, I imagine, increased her ability to honourably embody all the facets of the river within her recordings.

When I started this course I used to struggle to understand how a collection of recordings, or abstract composition, could carry any tangible meaning. Looking back I now realise that I approached listening with quite a detached mindset that separated the art from its creator. I think I understand that now art is not meant to be experienced in isolation. At least in the context of field recording, it is the field recordist that is changed through their experiences, acknowledgement of differences, and introspection into the multiple modes of knowing and being in the world. It is the creator that brings their affections, influenced by these changes, to their art. And through direct and indirect interactions with an audience, the opportunity of an expanded sensibility is offered; If not immediate, it is most likely kickstarted by the very process of coming to terms with some perceived absurdity and, one hopes, the drive to make sense of it. Art in itself, is an invitation to engage with the myriad of experiences and interactions that brought it to life, and the visual or sonic component is perhaps only the surface of its figurative river, and not something we can experience in isolation from process.

Jana Winderen is another sound artist that has repeatedly found her way into my research. I was made aware of her work earlier this year when looking into ecological sound artists and her installation The River at the Natural History Museum, made in collaboration with sound specialist Tony Myatt, is one that I have been meaning to visit for some time now. Her use of hydrophones and the piezo technique that utilises contact microphones, is again reminiscent of the ideas explored in Living as a Bird. By this I mean that these microphones give us new ways to explore material resonances, environmental changes and bioacoustics, increasing our intimacy with the natural world in a way that pays tribute to subjectivities outside of our own. Jana Winderen states herself in her own interview with Cathy Lane: “What I decided I really wanted to do was to go out there and to find the best recordings from the very smallest creatures, like an insect eating a leaf, for example; to seek out the sounds that we do not notice or cannot perceive.” In listening to her recordings, people are made aware of these intangible sounds, and maybe stimulated to seek out the same – I feel that the growing accessibility of hydrophones and contact mics make this endeavour all the more important!

Winderen readily admits that she is very much drawn to interesting sounds, as opposed the everyday mundane, something that I have read Lockwood say too. In doing so, do we forget to recognise sounds of the everyday as important tools for reflection? I guess this is something that might require more research to unpack. Either way, we are driven by our aesthetic sensibilities, and in honouring that, I feel can lead one to their most authentic work. Her work has come a long way since she began field recording, having acquired increasingly expensive microphones that surpass the shortcomings of cheaper equipment and their noisier preamps and narrower frequency spectrums. Her work involving recordings of bats, whales and dolphins have allowed her to explore ultra-sonic animal communication, outside the human range of audibility. This reminds of the presence of bats at Tolworth Court Farm Fields, something I had overlooked up until now. During my time field recording for the Wadhurst Conservation Team, I had the pleasure of joining ecologists on a Bat Survey, familiarising myself with different kinds of bat detectors. I wonder whether I could reach out in the next few weeks to borrow one for a weekend or so.

Lastly, Winderen also mentions that her composition process is not one that begins in front of her computer, but in the choices she makes out in the field such as microphone placement, guided by her sensibilities. Thinking in terms of layers, she records multiple perspectives of the same location in order to get a fuller picture. Lane challenges her on this, asking – “But if you are choosing to pursue a criterion of sounding ‘good’ or of beauty then are you, to the extent that you do that, also leaving behind a more documentary focus, one that reflects the place where the sounds were recorded?” My response to this would be that Winderen’s compositional process is one that is guided by sensitivity and respect, and so even if she is guided aesthetically as opposed to pure realism, the very nature of her aim to create connections as opposed to divisions make her resulting work less susceptible to misinterpretation – perhaps in the same way that a naturalists affections for bird life arises from observations of their differences in behaviour, if we once again refer back to Despret’s book. Winderen states herself that the extent of her processing only happens in the field – her choice of microphone, how she uses them, where she places them, when to push record – and not manipulated in software, out of the need to respect the sonic material and the bodies they originate from. I am excited to return to Tolworth Court Farm Fields, guided by both Lockwood’s and Winderen’s techniques.

I have now booked a slot to go see Winderen’s installation at the Natural History Museum in order to directly experience her work, but also to get a better idea of how to display my own work in a gallery setting.