Sunday, 26 August 2018

Mapping the lines of a glacier


The beginnings of a new book. They seem to be losing words. The octobook didn't have so many. Recovery was more space than text; and this one - as it stands - even more so. I think in part it is the subject matter: what words would be contained in the map of a glacier? The design grew in my mind when I was lying on the beach alongside Bloomstrandbreen - it was a sunny day and many of us lounged in full waterproofs like seals on the sand - I had a horrible thought I'd said in my funding application I'd make a book a day: there were only four days left before the end of the trip and I'd made none. This riffs from: the folds, crevasses and lines in ancient ice. I liked how the path through the opening of the pages has no obvious beginning, like a glacier that moves and pops and calves in all places. Once I made the first version I realized I wanted the paper wrinkled, as if having been scrunched up and thrown away before being rescued and flattened, carefully saved. I had to stitch the folds to prevent a flat opening, and used blue thread as unoxygenated water is blue, glimpsed in deep holes in the surface and edges of glaciers. I've been wanting to use material line in a book for a while because poems have lines, but these lines that have lost their words. I love how Hepworth's lines make space seem deeper in her sculptures, or draw our eyes to emphasize the hollow.

The words came much later: one sentence that is not set in order, which might be frustrating, might not make it easy to read. But I didn't find glaciers very easy to read. I made two further editions of the book from A1 sheets of cartridge paper which meant the words had to be handwritten - not ideal. In fact the more I thought about the words I'd used the more uneasy I felt. A single sentence set in all that paper felt an extravagance. It had to be worth it.

I read the embedded water in a sheet of A4 could be anything from 1 to 10 litres of water. I've been more conscious than normal this week of the sheer amazingness of having drinking water on tap. I'm thirsty I turn the tap. The water in my glass is a day or two old, I tip it away to refill. How can I be so complacent about such a precious resource. It has seemed crazy to me for years that in the UK we flush our toilets with drinking water. I have friends who have linked their brown water to their cistern. Why is this not standard?

And yet this precious life-source can flip to serve as a threat. Glacier ice is the largest store of fresh water in the world - apparently holding 75% . Imagine another 75% more of the water already in the world. And while that still seems an unreal apocalyptic scenario ice that is usually too thick to melt is doing so now and glaciers are calving as ever but snowfall is not accumulating at the same rate (we saw around most of the glaciers we visited the lines of retreat, marking newly exposed rock that was once covered in ice). Even if decisions are made tomorrow to curtail emissions the ocean will continue to heat up and more ice melt. And as my last post pointed out the decision I made to go to Svalbard contributed to that warming (although interestingly I read in No is Not Enough that is takes 10 years for carbon emissions from a flight to convert into heat - which gives a little more credence to offsetting). Christina Figueres claimed that even a 1.5% rise in global temperature would only give a 50% chance to the most vulnerable people on the planet, while a 2% rise "closes the door to any stability" in low lying islands and coasts.

So all this is swirling about while I'm folding and unfolding this white sheet of crumpled paper that represents a glacier, unhappy about the words in there, wondering what words ought to be there, if there ought to be any in there. I start to think how lines might spin off or lie tangentially to the threads. Maybe they're stitched, a friend suggests. I try but such slow going prevents the possibility of it being a multiple. And I want more than one of these. Then, elsewhere, during a quiet moment, I suddenly see how lines of text could cross under or alongside the folds and thread. In short bursts of worded lines I see the poem cutting and carving along the paper like the lines of the glacial cracks, splinters of colour that drew my eye into and along the depth of the glacier. I think I might have a shape of a poem, if not exactly what it contains.

I can't let it go, not entirely. I'm working on other things, reading other things and find myself thinking of the folded paper and chew again and again over the correlation I made in my last post between Svalbard as metaphor for the Global North: the imbalance of power, impact and capacity for change between those able to visit (and leave) an intimidating wilderness and those having to face it with a view to surviving it. This is a possible place for those ideas. An object to bind thought and experience into its opening and closing, to draw together reflection to the original moment of encounter.

Through some fluke of internet browsing, during all this I came across Sara Ahmed's Phenomenology of Whiteness, which grabbed me by the lobes and didn't let go. In it she builds on the work of Frantz Fanon and Merleau-Ponty to write persuasively of how being white is historically embodied as an invisible inheritance: taking up space in a way that isn't necessarily felt - unless we encounter the stress of it, which of course as a white person is less likely than as a person of colour. She writes of whiteness as habit, as a repeated action, reinforcing this situatedness in how we act. I read and reread the essay and kept thinking of how this habituated embodiness could describe the movement of a glacier: the being pushed forward by what lies behind, the invisibleness of the inhabited space, being shaped by the encounter with an enormous, invisible force. How the whiteness that drove colonialism's view of the world in terms of resources to be exploited fueled the global disconnect that capitalism maintains in its denial of ecological reciprocity, that has led to where glaciers, as well as so much else, are threatened - indeed, seem to be regarded by some as scrunched up bits of paper.

And so the poem begins to stretch into the shape I had seen for it but not heard until now. Which feels like the first time I had a sense of a poem as receptacle before knowing how or what to put in it. And anything that is a first is, in my book, an interesting thing.

Wednesday, 8 August 2018

On flying and its contrails


The trip was everything and nothing I'd imagined. You can read about what we got up to here.  This post is more about where I've been in the weeks since returning.

My return flight to Longyearbyen Svalbard from Manchester UK was, apparently, equal in its carbon emissions to one person’s yearly output in India (a per capita equation made by Atmosfair, the German government’s carbon ‘offsetting’ scheme). That’s one trip, within Europe - with a stopover - the taking off and landing are the most costly (environmentally speaking) elements of flight (when about 25% of flight emissions happen). I was there for just under three weeks, travelling on a boat which for most of the time motored since the winds were not strong enough to sail. It was a not-for-profit artist residency (although with the organisation’s registered offices on 5th Avenue NYC I wonder about the relationship between profit, status and tax deductibles). Out of the twenty nine artists I think five were vegetarian, two from non-Anglophone countries, four people of colour. I don’t know how many were funded to go and how many self-funded. It wasn’t cheap. We were a privileged crew, researching, making, sharing and discussing art, the arctic, and our distant lives.

Evidence of that privilege shone in how ill-equipped we were to be there. I don’t mean without thermals, Gortex, Muck boots, fleeces etc - we had plenty of those with their silly macho names (I remember a pair of wellies branded ‘Aggressor’) - but how blatant it was we were surface visitors in this wilderness, this inhospitable-to-humans place. We had armed guides who were never out of sight. We made few decisions for ourselves. We did not belong there. As such our presence is sorely felt. A polar bear was shot last week in an encounter with another tourist group. One of my fellow writers describes it here 

In its huge vast whiteness, Svalbard, and visiting it, could be a metaphor for the Global North. I am reminded of Wall-E : on the boat, as all tourists in Svalbard, I am one of those far away from the dump Wall E inhabits. We are not quite on our loungers unable to move, but you can only tour the place if you’ve got the money to pay for protection from the nonhuman land that is Svalbard. The majority of us are no longer able to inhabit the wilderness we have stripped from the world. This doesn’t make it less alluring, just a whole lot more expensive. A little like the cost of air on Mars. We were like an inverse zoo: staring out from our invisible bars at the land and its creatures.

One of the most poignant moments of our trip was our arrival at the northern most islands of Svalbard: Rossøya and Vesle Tavleøya. We only knew they were the most northern because of the chart (although we were actually in unchartered waters). They were as rugged and sparse as the slightly less northern islands. Smaller, and therefore less snow, therefore more birds and therefore more algae. It was the algae that prevented our landing, well, thick slimy algae combined with a long rolling swell. But I loved the fact that something so small and so essential to our lives (for every three breaths we inhale, one is produced by marine phytoplankton) was preventing our (albeit temporary) colonisation of this most northern of rocks.

We weren’t in desperate need to land. And however much I enjoyed being repelled by the algae, I am still can't quite grasp everything I think this foray means to me. More and more species are moving north in the warming seas. Many of the places we went to were not accessible at the same time of previous years. We, as tourists, are part of that migration, albeit on another level. We are hungry with curiosity rather than hungry with empty stomachs. As tourists what do we contribute? Not much to the actual place. We can’t. It, like the sea, is not for humans to occupy beyond how we do - through our extended selves of chemicals, plastics and other unwanted waste.

We come back with our stories (read this one) and make art. But how does that square to being complicit in the destruction of very thing we uphold? I know flying is a major contribution to carbon emissions. How can I expect our political leaders to make fundamental changes from the top down if I don’t? The first Lancashire fracking well was given governmental go ahead this summer, a second is due to follow, providing fuel for us to continue in our energy consuming ways, until … what? There aren’t enough glaciers (and associative ecology) in Svalbard to lure us; or the true economic cost of flying is finally passed down to the consumer making them prohibitive to all but the 1% megarich; or weather conditions disrupt our travel plans?

I don’t have answers: I’m a poet. I’m a white, Northern European, poet writing in English; in some ways part of the status quo that needs to be disrupted. What I’m writing at the moment in response to the trip is so disruptive it’s incomprehensible. I like it but am, metaphorically speaking, floored; grounded, detained for not offering a straightforward narrative. Maybe that's the point. I don't know. What happens next, after that and after that could be, in part, up to me.


(For a more tender version of these thoughts read Eloise Shepherd's piece in Zoomorphic)

Thursday, 31 May 2018

Listening to the Unseen


With thanks to the NWCDTP I'm off to Svalbard in June (via - appropriately - some Marine Transgression in Bristol). I'm not sure when I first heard the name Svalbard (only in existence since the 1920s when the archipelago came under Norwegian sovereignty), but in some sense it feels like my body has known it since before my brain attempted to articulate it: Svalbard calls me – with its hissed beginning, long vowels and plosive consonants - it synthesizes my auditory sense with my tactile: in voicing it, I enter an unknown space, uncertain, angular and expansive.

Svalbard is a place of sparse human population, contested 'ownership' and exploitation. There is no record of an indigenous human settlement, and anyone may live or work there regardless of nationality. It is a nonhuman more than human world: more polar bears than people populate the islands; and the mix of warm gulf stream with polar currents churns up plankton so the waters around the archipelago contain more than half the phytoplankton of the Arctic Ocean. This abundance of plankton brings more fish and birds to the area: these in turn bring more cetaceans and other mammals: all feeding vigorously over the three months of the summer season.

In traveling to the far north I hope to hear more clearly what it is that speaks to me, how I will receive its language of wind, light, surface, birds, fish, molluscs and mammals, and how I will respond to it. Almost twenty years ago I crewed from Iceland to the Faroes to Shetland, so have some sense of the North Atlantic. But this time I won't be sailing, crewing three hours on / six off. This time I have the luxury of unmonitored time, the freedom to watch and understand the navigational decisions of others from a distance, allowing to me to observe what is going on around us, under us, and above. I hope to understand enough to relate to that which is most obviously foreign: my intuition operating to transmit the experience, to find a language to remake this transmission in my poems, in my artistbooks.

This remote ocean offers the chance to traverse my sense of perception: from how I perceive, through the blur of my short-sightedness, to what I can’t see: the depths, the microscopic marine world, and the inherent interrelationship these have with our unseen futures. I cannot travel deep into the ocean. I cannot descend in a submersible and explore the unseeable sea that way. To travel across the sea, 3000km north, to experience the Arctic at the far edge of Europe is the nearest I can come to encounter that which is concealed from my European / island / white / female / middle-class view. Being both part of my geographical identity and apart from it, the Arctic represents the zone where familiarity bisects unknown, my physicality meets high sea.

This may sound romantic, idealistic, tending towards the heroic sublime of the isolated figure. And maybe in part that is a driver, but I am not expecting a pristine experience. I anticipate seasickness, there always in for the first day or two of being on board. I've recently begun to consider this as a shamanistic ritual: the purging of landlegs to open the mindbody of sealegs. I will be onboard with a bunch of strangers, all on their own quests, some of whom I'm sure I'll connect with, others, perhaps, not so. I also imagine there will be plastic, oil rigs, other boats, the ruins of ex-industry. There will be scummy water and dead things.

June. It will be twenty four hour daylight. What will remain hidden? How will the shadow of the archipelago fall on the sea? How will the continental land mass of Europe affect the ocean there? How will the current, the eddies, the down-welling and overfalls behave up there, where the water cools and, as the ice melts, becomes less salty? How will I perceive this turning of the currents at the polar north, the intermingling of planetary past – as held in our debris – with planetary future – as held in what that debris does next. This fieldwork is a phenomenological experiment with how to immerse myself in that which eludes me. An experiment, I keep reminding myself, that doesn't have a clear hypothesis and may have no clear outcome. An opportunity, as Haraway has it, "to cultivate the wild virtue of curiosity"

Sunday, 19 November 2017

Budget tally


Of course I welcome the possibility of a tax on single use plastic in the forthcoming budget; and while for this budget the term 'single use' includes "packaging, bubble wrap, and polystyrene takeaway boxes", it does not include plastic drinks bottles which may be subject to a 'return and reward scheme'. Hooray.

On my beach clean this morning I thought I'd list everything I found that could be considered 'single use' (I was out for approx half an hour and covered a strip 10m max):
35 plastic drink bottles, various sizes
4 q-tip shafts
1 burst helium balloon with ribbon
3 seedling plant pots
1 earplug
1 bucket
1 Tampon applicator
1 gun cartridge casing
1 two-litre screenwash container
1 cleaning spray container
4 drinking straws
length of meshed strapping
toy bucket handle
toy spade
3 spray cans
5 drink cans
2 food tubs without lids
6 hot drink cups
countless fragments of plastic sacking
countless polystrene balls
a zillion teeny bits of takeaway food containers
3 chunks of polystrene packaging (all larger than 10cm square)

This amounted to four large shopping bag loads. Most of which is now destined for the local landfill, where it at least won't be eaten by sea-creatures but is unlikely to remain inert.

Monday, 13 November 2017

Introducing the Octobook



Several weeks before Blue Planet II hit our screens the Octobook was gestating. A very different beast from my previous artistbooks it plays between physical, image and text equally, celebrating that most extraordinary of creatures, the octopus, or perhaps, rather than celebrating it, the book might be said to be envying or maybe even emulating it.

A how-to guide, a pocket survival manual for the curious and creatively adventurous among us, this beauty is the result, I'm sure, of spending most weeks this year playing (aka sewing, gluing, folding and dithering over colour coordination) under the expert tutorage of Sylvia Waltering (of Battenburg Press ). Not that we made an octobook in class, but having to think about how to make our best book from each design, how to nip and pinch out the cloth, to sew and fold and fold again and just what were we going to do with all these books we've made, the ones we didn't quite make and the ones we've yet to make, we slowly learnt how to, in short, make a book for any occasion.

I fell in awe of the octopus earlier this year when on a Marine Conservation Society organised rock pool safari we witnessed a lard white octopus caught in a net instantly transform to scarlet when it was freed and hit the water. I mean instantly. Split second white to red. I couldn't have blinked faster. Still confused it first swam away from the shore and then curved back towards us before finally diving under, all the while it seemed to be eyeballing me. I was held captivated by its black stare. 

A month or so later I heard China Mieville enthuse about their physical intelligence at Sounding the Sea as part of Hull's City of Culture, then dipped in and out of reading bits and bobs online, and just the other week I read Peter Godfrey Smith's Other Minds that explores cephalopod intelligence, the connection between their evolution and ours and their canny behaviour. 

Underpinning all this has been my thinking about how we might expand our sense of subjectivity beyond our limited egotistical concerns, so learning to converse with, or relate to, a wider world; how we might experience our embodiment differently to remember what our species is in relation to other species, how we might recalibrate our sense of exceptionalism by drawing our physical, mental and emotional understandings in and out of each experience, so we can recognise our power and vulnerability, our coming into ourselves as we reach beyond ourselves, as we lose the rigid sense of ourself.

And of course all that sounds ridiculously self-important and grandiose, so, much better to disguise it, as an octopus would, as something else... a book


You can buy one from this page of my website


Wednesday, 18 October 2017

Fking Up



For the past couple of weeks we've been working towards a hardback book, collating things to photocopy onto various pages and then stitching them into signatures adding a spine, covers and fretting about uniformity. Except of course these aren't about being neat and regular. The pages are a mix of blank white paper and coloured textured papers and images of our things. The writing space I am used to is disrupted by stuff that I may be inspired by, irritated by, write around or have to skip over. When Sylvie first introduced the idea I was surprised at how unsettled I was by it. The space I was used to entering was already inhabited and I was going to have to negotiate it. This says plenty about me without having to go further. And enough for me to take the finished book in both hands, excited as to how I'm going to write in it, what I will write in it, in response to or against that which is already there.

I've been writing recently about the control I assume when writing, a similar control to what I inhabit when sailing: if not control perhaps then a calm resilience to face whatever, move through it or accept I cannot take the boat out that day. As part of this piece of writing I tried to write out all the expressions I use in speech (aka shout) with the word 'fuck', and then to string them into one sentence. I can trace this desire back to reading Joshua Clover's and Juliana Spahr's #Misanthropocene. Mine hasn't worked out like theirs (obviously), but I like it as a first dipping in of a toe to the waters of angry. There's plenty to be angry about, and plenty of reasons to channel that anger into articulate writing that still reverberates with the anger to the point that its tension holds the words together while threatening to overspill. Tripping myself up within the confines of a homemade hardbacked journal that will suddenly present something I was not writing about seems like a good place to continue the experiment.

Wednesday, 20 September 2017

an immense or boundless expanse of something


..according to the OED, also "(hyperbolically): a very great or indefinite quantity". And, look, all those vowels too. Vowels are how we personalise a word. We pronounce consonants similarly, but vowels, in any language I suspect, are open to how our breath passes through us. 

We were playing with letterpress last night at Hot Bed Press, with the inspiring Elizabeth Willow. There was a choice of four large wooden sorts - limited by the letters available and which each of us wanted to use for our particular words. So, I make a word that is of "indefinite quantity" out of a restriction. And in this image it is the word that has substance in the white, although due to my inexpertise, its substance is feint, thinning, patchy.  

It is a word so huge, in a picture so apparently empty I am lost for more words for this blog. All this feels so contradictory, shunting against my skin somehow. And quietly. It is all so quiet - in me and on the paper here. How can that be when it is so enormous? So full? I do not know if this is foreboding or calm. Just as the letters could be rising or sinking.