These sensory puzzle pieces pull you into the present so much so that your roles elsewhere in the world are left to slip away. They can be revisited later. Lots of life meaning and inspiration can be found in this place. As I walk along the breathing shoreline, water in, water out, it’s the feeling of sand giving way underfoot, an impermanence and movement we don’t experience on concrete, and rarely on dirt or gravel tracks. For me, it’s this impermanence that brings perspective.
I’m just going to rip off the death bandaid here. It’s uncomfortable to confront sometimes. The idea of death can conjure big emotions in some of us, or spark unpleasant memories. If this is what you’re feeling, remember you’re just reading a blog post right now, and it’s okay, you’re okay. These reactions are how you know you’re here, how you know you’re living. To be alive is to experience life, and death is as much a part of life as living is. Death is not only found at the end of life. We have little deaths all the time, we just call it change instead. When we decide to find a new job, end a relationship, or discard an item we no longer need or can make use of. Parts of ourselves and the spaces we inhabit die off all the time. This is what I see when I walk along the beach. Take a barefoot step and let the sand sink a little, a release. We let it happen and take another step forward, knowing that the footsteps behind us will be licked away by the ocean, tomorrow becoming changed, something new. The letting go, the little death, is as much a part of life as living is.
My mycelium friends and their wild co-workers remind me of death all the time. In the wild, fungi and other micro organisms live in death. By this I mean they break down what has died, or is dying. From a fungi’s perspective, something that has died is not a carcass, nor does it make it time for a funeral. To them it is food, time for a feast, time to return a mass of cells that is no longer serving a purpose back to the ecosystem so they might find new purpose. Fungi turn death back into life. They are makers of the forest floor.
This perspective and purpose is not just for fungi to hold.
One of the most valuable lessons saprophytic fungi (the decomposers) have taught me, is that death is also the start of life. I find myself getting so tied up in stories sometimes, believing there is a beginning, a middle, and an end. But in reality, there is only a verb like unfolding - change, or transformation.
Fungi are happy death keepers, they whisper prayers in the ears of dead trees as they consume and decay the tree’s physical body. Mycelium works hyphae throughout the wood. This creates channels for water, oxygen, and nutrients to travel in and support other microbial life, who will continue to do what the fungi started.
There are other natural entities taking on a similar role, but in soil. I recently learnt that certain types of weeds can indicate what the state of the soil is in that area. Humans and weeds have a long standing relationship. We love to do destruction, and weeds love to grow where destruction has been done. They also love to be destroyed in ways that will spread their seeds and allow them to reproduce.
In my time weaving I have been building a relationship with narrow-leaf plantain, Plantago lanceolata, a weed that grows all over Aotearoa. Plantain is often separated into narrow-leaf, which is growing in my garden, and broad-leaf. It is often eaten by livestock and is sometimes intentionally sown for feed. When growing voluntarily, plantain can indicate that the surrounding soil is heavy in clay, not very fertile, and compact. Young leaves can be eaten or made into a tea that has historically been used as cough medicine.
To me, this weed is longing to be woven. Its long, fibrous stems stretch in and out of my warp. One day I picked some to try retting them. This is the process of soaking natural resources (often leaves or stems) in water for at least 24 hours, sometimes over a week, until cellulose in the resource has broken down and separated from the fibres within. They have been soaking for over a week now and are still green and strong, no cellulose break down that I can see. I might have to dry and rehydrate these instead. This won’t make them suitable for fine textiles weaving, but perhaps for basket weaving. I wove a fresh stalk into my weft so I can note its changes over time.
This is the first time I thought to include the plants around me in what I was making. In a later weaving session I noticed little Tī Kōuka blossoms lying on the ground. They’re a perfect cartoon flower shape in their entirety, no separate petals. My interactions with the plantain inspired me to sew some of these little gems onto the piece. I don’t expect them to last forever - at some point they’re likely to be ripped off by the wind, or shrivel and crack. The atoms they are made of will return to the earth.
Just as I and my weaving will. An uncomfortable, but grounding thought. As I practice multispecies philosophy it seems like this is the point I continue to come back to. It’s as though the non-human entities in my environment are continually trying to remind me of the reality that death is as much a part of life as living is. Each being in this world plays their part in life and death. Each entity acting as death keeper for another.
I'd like you to pull apart that morbid idea some more: if each entity acts as death keeper for another, what the fuck are we doing? What in the underworld are you doing?
We might have forgotten how to be good death keepers.
]]>Today I’d like to chat about one of Anma’s (my late grandmother) favourite creatures, butterflies.
The caterpillar’s main objective is to eat, to stuff as much nutrients and weight into their squishy little bodies as possible. Us humans also require food to grow, however the food I would like to talk about today is food for thought. In our caterpillar stage the objective is to be nourished by meaning. We soak up love, stories, and lessons from our families, peers, and communities. Some of the richest meaning coming from our grandmothers. Much like the caterpillar, this sustenance prepares us for the rest of our lives.
With this meaning we build up an identity, preferences, and ways of being in the world. Just like the caterpillar building its cocoon. The chrysalis stage for us can sometimes be invisible, like a goldfish unable to see the glass bowl that contains them. The meaning we consume becomes who we are, what we believe about our environment, our people, and ourselves. At some point the chrysalis must crack open. This can feel good and bad, it can be healing or harming. As we continue through life we face challenges to our beliefs, our bodies, minds and spirits. These challenges can transform us, and we emerge from the chrysalis as butterflies with wings that carry us on our journey.
And such is the cycle of life, the butterflies create the next generation of caterpillars to be filled with meaning. Whether this is through having children, teaching, or acting as a guide for the young ones.
You may understand the comparison that I am making here, is the butterfly life cycle mirroring our own. Caterpillar, chrysalis, and butterfly. Maiden, mother, and crone. But I think this cycle occurs many times throughout our lives. We make these little changes, and let parts of ourselves go in preparation for the final transformation.
Lois certainly faced a few changes and transformations on her long journey here. While she was adverse to some technological advancements, she met her challenges with resilience and was focused on her family and community. Anma I am so grateful for the meaning you have provided us. I know our other butterflies at Murrundindi are thrilled to be with you once again. Rest In Peace.
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A friend recently told me she loves that I speak in metaphors. I honestly hadn't noticed this much before, that I express the way I see the world with metaphorical language. Maybe because it doesn't feel like a metaphor to me, it's just reality as I experience it. So heres a little introspective piece about materials and relationships, with some big ol' metaphor speak for you. Dedicated to my big hearted friends Shana and Hannah. Enjoy.
https://albersfoundation.org/teaching/anni-albers/lectures/#tab1
I found Anni Albers early in my relationship with textiles. The way she talks about her relationship with making materials has really stuck with me, that and the fact that she died the year I was born. "The conscientious designer does not himself design at all, but rather, gives the object to be, a chance to design itself." I have always experienced artistic creation as the thing making itself. Some people experience this as imposter syndrome. I can understand this framing, but through meaning I have built for myself, I know that I am not just myself. I am also what I make. I am also the earth and I am the sky, the water, and the fibres that I weave. I am you reading this paragraph. One day the worms and mycelium will eat my body, and then maybe I'll be a worm, or a mushroom. I am no imposter here, because everything is connected. The experience of creation occurring through me, not from me, confirms this truth for myself.
Here’s a little poem of mine trying to explain this process;
When I weave I come back to us. We yarn with the threads and let narrative go. Developing and discussing ideas not segmented by time but by patterns. To come back from this place we put patterns in the hierarchy time asks for, because narrative asks for time. We weave and come back to me. Now understanding where we are in the story that cradles us.
Relationships are like a 2D double helix. Coming together, being apart, and coming together again. One of the most insightful relationships I’ve experienced brought this knowledge to my attention, through my friend Hannah. Our own relationship has reflected this idea. We have loved each other, we lived together, we worked together, we fought a lot, we hated each other, we missed each other, and we love each other again. We continue to weave our lives separately, but always intersecting. When we do intersect, we talk about how we’ve grown and changed, sharing new found introspective knowledge with each other. We discuss the metaphysical world as we see it meet with the material one. Like the idea that we experience relationships as double helix. They’re like DNA. We provide each other with meaning that twists and turns right through to the centre of each cell making up our body. Like yarn being spun, wavy sheep's wool fibres locking into place - theres micro spaces in there. Space has to be present for there to be intersection, even if it’s the tiniest nano millimetre. Like the double helix experience of relationships. We make space and grow, we intersect and grow.
I experience this same phenomena when I meditate. There is space for thought, and space for thought to fly away. It’s like forgetting to be present but still welcoming each moment with loving open arms, when you remember.
I believe Albers’ perception of designing has helped shape my own relationship with materials. I’m able to perceive materials with a life force, with something of their own that they’re bringing to the table. With energy to be transferred and transformed. Something continuing to exist that can I relate myself to. This perception helps me see how we are constantly weaving relationships with objects and materials, forgetting some things exist and coming back to them months later. I see our relationships with ‘waste’; taking, making, using, and discarding - I guess our next lives will meet these discarded materials again via the environmental issues their neglected state will cause.
This perception is amplified to the fullest as I build a relationship with mycelium. I have much less physical control over mycelial threads than any other threads I’ve previously worked with. The organism chooses the best route for itself and I just provide the potential pathways. We intersect and are making something together, but in our own space we are learning, growing, and making decisions. This space feeds back into the design of the material, where we come together. We are co-designers continuing to take the twists of the double helix.
]]>There is growing interest in the utility of fungi in many areas of human and ecological life. There are many species of fungi all with different qualities and unique potential, however their primary function is to decompose. Fungi feed off the forest floor, dying trees, even living organisms. They consume and transform anything that needs to continue on from one stage to the next in the circle of life.
Most people contextualise fungi as mushrooms. These are the fruiting bodies, or reproductive organs, of a fungi. I am interested in the part of fungi we don’t see; the mycelium. Mycelium is a branching network of micro-filaments called hyphae. Hyphae are formed by cells separated by cross walls, or septa, with nuclei enclosed within a cell wall. The cell walls of mycelium are mainly composed of a layer of chitin on the cell membrane, glucans, whose composition varies between species, and a layer of proteins on the surface. This natural polymeric structure makes the ideal composite for material production that is biodegradable and in many cases has been reported to be hydrophobic, when processed, which is very rare in natural fibres.
So far the development of mycelium materials has mostly produced hard materials. The leading company utilising this technology is Ecovative Design LLC. They grow packaging and various other products which replace common uses of polystyrene and aldehydes. At the University of Utrecht designer Maurizio Montalti is testing a number of ways that mycelium can be grown. He has generated various material properties out of mycelium, from dense building materials to malleable rubber and leather like substances. By being selective of the mycelium species, substrate and structure of the substrate I believe we can grow attractive malleable fabrics for various uses. My focus is in the textile industry. I want to produce materials grown from mycelium that might be applied to fashion, upholstery or various other malleable textile uses.
There is overwhelming evidence that the textile industry is having detrimental effects on the natural environment, its inhabitants and the inhabitants of communities that produce large quantities of the world’s textiles. The development of natural alternatives to textile structures and systems which alleviate the stresses of current production are imperative to moulding the industry into something that benefits the earth. Not destroy it.
To address this I will position my practical work within a posthuman discussion around moving design from a place of human centrism to ecosystem centrism. Generally we perceive ourselves, as a species and individually, as separate entities from the spaces we inhabit, and the organisms that are our co-habitants. We situate ourselves somewhere in between inanimate objects, and the wild world. Effectively like computers made of biodegradable materials. I would argue that a primary function of homo sapiens is to create and use tools. Design is the visual organisation of consciousness. Tools are created objects/systems which turn a problem, something we don’t understand or have not materially realised, into a solution. For a large portion of recorded sapien history, starting with the agricultural revolution, the prevailing cultural forces have driven the intention of design towards making homo sapien lives more efficient or pleasurable. A lack of consideration for anything but our experiences has inevitably led to the demise of many once healthy ecosystems. We have reached a stage in our evolution where we are able to contemplate the atoms we consist of. These same atoms make up everything. With this knowledge we can no longer only consider improvement on the amount of time or energy a task will take, or how to achieve pleasant sensations. As atoms that can contemplate atoms we have a responsibility to consider how the objects and systems we generate affect our direct ecosystems.
Throughout this project I would like to reflect on my practical developments with the mindset of co-designing with my direct ecosystem. In their thesis, Tatiana Rubiano Goubert discusses thinking of mycelium as a co-worker rather than a medium to work with. It is a living organism, complete with its own directives and limitations. This design strategy reminds me of an aesthetic and philosophical inspiration of mine, Anni Albers and her threads;
“Now, material, any material obeys laws of its own, laws recognizably given to it by the reigning forces of nature or imposed by us on those materials that are created by our brain, such as sound, words, colors, illusions of space—laws of old or newly invented. We may follow them or oppose them, but they are guidelines, positive or negative.
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In my case it was threads that caught me, really against my will. To work with threads seemed sissy to me. I wanted something to be conquered. But circumstances held me to threads and they won me over. I learned to listen to them and to speak their language. I learned the process of handling them.”
As a weaver myself I know the temperamental nature of working with various threads. As you produce a woven fabric you become more able to serenade your threads into the positions you intend. Sometimes, however, threads have limits and may not mold to your desires. This is part of the design process, especially when beginning work with a new medium. I expect my design choices and research structure to be largely directed by the growth needs and characteristics that I discover while working with mycelium. I wish to extend this collaboration with my medium, mycelium, to my direct ecosystem. This means contemplating the end use of the tools I employ, waste the project produces and overall potential benefit to the wider New Zealand ecosystem, and communities.