Imagining the Ecosphere:
A Material Exploration into the Fantastical Possibilities of Life
By Emma H. Baldwin

Table of Contents
Positionality ……………………………………………………………………………………..4
Learning From the Past…………………………………………………………………………..6
Research: Coast Salish Territories, Walking and the Value of Biophilia…………………………8
Considerations of Space……………………………………………………..…………………..13
Process in Practice……………………………………………………………………………….19
Burrowed with sun skin and new days and Reuse of Past Works…………………………….….25
Cycles and Changes…………………………………………………………………………… 27
Conclusion……………………………………………………………………………………….28
Works Cited/ Works Consulted ………………………………………………………………….32

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“When life sank down for a moment, the range of experience seemed
limitless... Beneath it is all dark, it is all spreading, it is unfathomably
deep; but now and again we rise to the surface and that is what you see
us by. Her horizon seemed to her limitless”
Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse

“Drifting into my solitude, over my head
Don't you wonder sometimes
'Bout sound and vision?”
David Bowie, “Sound and Vision”

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Positionality: North Carolina Lakes and Suburbs
There was a lake1 at the bottom of the hill behind my house. It was surrounded by overgrown
brush that shook when a breeze moved down the slope. I can remember sitting on the back of the
couch, straining to see the other side. It felt like an enormous obstacle—one I knew I had to
cross. I was convinced if I could get to the other side I’d be in a hinterland— the magic
unknown. It was a place that spoke to me of possibilities and of an expansion beyond my
suburban life in which the most exciting adventures consisted of being allowed to walk to the
mailbox by myself.
When I finally got to the other side of the lake, it was exactly what I’d hoped. I found myself in
awe of everything I could reach and everything I couldn’t. But before I knew it, I was growing
up. Real-life expanded and took my curiosity along with it. It was a long time before I
remembered what was missing and to find again the ability to lose myself in the known and
unknown.
In my art practice, I want to recreate something of the wonder I felt then, as a 10-year-old girl in
the suburbs of eastern North Carolina2, wandering onto other people’s property. In addition to
that which I feel now as an adult who does her best to devote as much time as possible to being
outside3. When I stand back from one of my finished paper installations4, I envision silence in
the building. Except perhaps for that made by the tiny movements of the paper and the shuffling
of my feet across the floor. I would like to stand in the middle of my space in the gallery and
feel, alongside the tension, fear and the brutality of my expectations, the wetness seeping into my
shoes from the boggy trail beneath my feet.
To my left, I’d like to sense the path dropping precipitously downward, and the presence of the
adjacent hills and mountains looming against my side. Above me, when I observe the tiny
strands of paper fibre that I’ve cut into trailing, wing-like ribbons, I want to feel the rough pine
needles flipping across my skin as I sprint deeper into the woods, hoping my mom won’t notice
I’m missing.

1 I later found out it was a drainage pond but that didn’t stop it from being the most beautiful drainage pond I’d ever

seen.

2 Holly Springs, North Carolina to be exact.
3Outside meaning, my tiny porch, the park a block from my house, or the provincial parks.
4

Especially my idealized thesis work

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Through these installations, it is my goal to transmute and extend the feelings of wonder and joy
I experience in natural spaces and therefore prolong those states. By utilizing and expressing my
affective5 landscape through my artistic practice, I aim to provide myself with an extraordinary,
and at the same time comforting, atmosphere in which to exist. I attempt to accomplish this feat
through depictions of interconnected6, unrestrained, growing nature and a material exploration of
the most surreal and fantastical biological possibilities I can envision. My installations are
wondrous depictions of the ecosphere and my experiences with biophilia. The word “ecosphere”
is used to refer to the Earth as one organism made up of an infinite number of smaller parts.
“Biophilia” is defined as an affinity for the natural world and all living things (Dictionary.com).
Before proceeding, I believe it’s important to flesh out my definition of nature and the ways it
differs from those readily available in books and on the internet. "Nature” is generally defined as:
“the phenomena of the physical world collectively, including plants, animals, the landscape, and
other features and products of the earth, as opposed to humans or human creations” (Oxford
Dictionary). But I would like to define it as: the phenomena of the physical world collectively,
excluding nothing except for that which humans have created using only artificial elements. My
definition includes humans and non-human animals7, as well as flora, minerals and all other
products of the earth. It is through this all-encompassing consideration of the natural world I
understand my place in the ecosphere and my connection to all other human and non-human
natures.
It is through drawing, watercolour painting, cutting, clay elements, and installing, that I bring
into the world imagined florae and fauna. My process is time-consuming, but also thrilling,
especially as it has evolved to function as its ecosystem (engaging with ideas of life, death, and
rebirth). It requires my full attention and commitment to detail and expression.
Additionally, it is important to say that I do not understand my work as a means of escape from
the climate crisis or my responsibilities as a human living on and consuming the planet. Rather,
these spaces are ones in which I can assert a new way of observing the world, one in which I am
5Any experience of feeling or emotion, ranging from suffering to elation, from the simplest to the most complex

sensations of feeling (APA Dictionary of Psychology).

6 “Having all constituent parts linked or connected” (Oxford Dictionary).

When I consider this word, I think about this formal definition, as well as one that unites all living things through
their common “aliveness”.
A wonderful example comes from under our feet. In Braiding Sweetgrass Robin Wall Kimmerer discusses the layer
of mycorrhizae, “The mycorrhizal symbiosis enables the fungi to forage for mineral nutrients in the soil and deliver
them to the tree in exchange for carbohydrates”. She goes on to speak of a “bridge between individual trees, so that
all the trees in the forest are connected”.
7 The term “non-human animals” was popularized by Peter Singer in his life-changing book Animal Liberation

(1975) while discussing and trying to combat speciesism.

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not consumed by grief for what is lost, but hope for what can be reborn from the ashes. As will
be discussed later in the paper, these spaces are inspired by fiction as much as they are theory.
My installations are fictions, but ones that seek to cultivate wonder and joy as a way of
encouraging greater interaction with natural spaces.
The lives I create stem from my research into natural spaces8 as well as the desire to invent,
aggrandize and transform those spaces and their inhabitants as a means of elaboration and
expression of metamorphosis.
Writer and naturalist David Abram spells this out very eloquently in The Spell of the Sensuous
with the following quote: “Our bodies have formed themselves in delicate reciprocity with the
manifold textures, sounds, and shapes of an animate earth-- our eyes have evolved in subtle
interaction with other eyes, as our ears are attuned by their very structure to the howling of
wolves and the honking of geese.”
He goes on to discuss the implications of closing one’s body and mind off from the wider
natural world, stating: “To shut ourselves off from these other voices, to continue by our
lifestyles to condemn these other sensibilities to the oblivion of extinction, is to rob our senses of
their integrity and to rob our minds of coherence. We are human only in contact, and conviviality
with what is not human.”
These two quotes speak to the connectivity I sense within a wide range of ecosystems as well as
the power that recognizing and expanding that relationship can have. It is through embracing my
connection to natural spaces, allowing my senses to flourish alongside the senses of other living
and non-living inhabitants of the ecosphere, that I take pleasure in and feel myself a part of a
larger whole.

Learning From the Past
I started at Emily Carr University invested in understanding, depicting and changing human
ideological beliefs about the natural world. This meant considering how different environments
are valued and how on a scale of importance, various plant and animal species are ranked. I

8 Those I can physical reach, see “Coast Salish Territories, Walking and the Value of Biophilia” section, as well as

those I can explore through books and databases.

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believed that by rearranging or collapsing this hierarchy, conservation9, which is so dearly
needed10 in the contemporary world, would benefit.
At this point, Emma Marris, and her writings in Rambunctious Gardening: Saving Nature in a
Post-Wild World were deeply influential in reshaping how I understood learned natural value.
For me, she redefined what nature is and what it can be. This was accomplished through her
passionate essays equating the “pristine”11 National Parks, to overgrown parking lots in her home
town. Both she determined, are capable of inspiring wonder and providing opportunities for an
investigation into their interconnected parts.
Without a doubt, her theories on natural value are at the root of how I consider the natural world.
I work to always address my ideological preconceptions of what is beautiful, worth preserving or
studying. Taking this way of thinking into my current body of work has allowed me to choose,
without prejudice, how forms might come together.
While thinking about natural spaces, especially those in which we have learned to perceive as
pristine it’s important to remember that the National Parks Marris speaks about and which I
frequented are only acknowledged as “pristine” post-removal of Native peoples and the
destruction, through burning and demolishing, of their homes. It is crucial that I, a beneficiary of
the dispossession of Native lands, understand wilderness “as a historical and cultural construct.”
I find it necessary to remember that I grew up with a specific ideological lens that depicted
public or government “owned” lands as “uninhabited Edens rather than anthropological
landscapes shaped by Indian fire setting, hunting, and plant breeding” (Spence).
As much as I cared, and still do care about theories of conservation, I realized early on in the
MFA program that I had shuttled myself into and sealed myself within a nicely worded, but in
the end confining, box. My art practice was an uninterrupted cycle of rules that continuously led
back to the same question: How was I influencing the viewer for the better? I’ve wanted to move
away from this question for a while, but I’ve found it difficult to put myself into the equation and
consider why I care about the natural world, what it gives me and why I’ve created such a laborintensive process for myself.12 I finally dragged myself in front of the mirror and came to a better
understanding of my intentions, as will be elaborated on in detail throughout this document.
9‘“Conservation” is the care and protection of resources so that they can persist for future generations.” (National

Geographic)

10 “Continued human population growth has led to unsustainable rates of consumption of our natural resources,

resulting in a loss of Earth’s biodiversity.” (National Geographic).

11 “Original and pure; not spoiled or worn from use” (Cambridge Dictionary).
12In fact, this paper has existed in two quite different iterations. This is the latter.

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Research: Coast Salish Territories, Walking and the Value of Biophilia
Over the last year and a half, I’ve spent time exploring the forest and shoreline ecosystems that
exist within the Coast Salish territories. The first thing I discovered when I stepped into the
woods was an explosion in scale. I was used to the smaller pine forests of eastern North Carolina
where the tallest trees reach just over 100ft. In North Vancouver, even the smallest secondgrowth trees lord over the wildest parts of North Carolina’s National Parks.
When able, I spend my time hiking trails that cover the area from Horseshoe Bay, to the eastern
parts of Belcarra Regional Park. These wanderings serve as my primary research method13 as I
build a mental encyclopedia of flora, fauna and the ways life grows, changes and connects. I’m
intrigued by how plants and animals adapt and learn from one another, as well as the way I
become adapted to a particular ecosystem after spending time there. Walking has allowed me to
acknowledge my body in space. It provides me with an opportunity to study and learn from my
surroundings as well as a chance to assess my position in connection with the presence of nonhuman natures.
My experiences within natural spaces, whether in those generally labelled as wild14 or pristine or
the more accessible, such as city parks, speak to me of companionship and connectedness. I feel
myself a part of these spaces, and in my most solitary moments, am comforted by the myriad of
life around me and the integral similarities between myself and these non-human species. This
affinity for the natural world, and all other living things, is known as biophilia (Dictionary.com)
Biophilia is a cold, scientific word but it’s used to refer to something quite warm and
multifaceted in its value.15 For me, as someone who is primarily solitary, I take pleasure in the
constant presence of non-human life. It’s a great reprieve to allow my eyes an escape from the

13 I am reminded of A History of Walking by Rebecca Solnit. She describes walking as,

“ideally… a state in which
the mind, the body, and the world are aligned, as though they were three characters finally in conversation together,
three notes suddenly making a chord.”
14 Plants or animals that live or grow independently of people, in natural conditions and with natural characteristics

(Cambridge Dictionary).

15 As stated in “Beyond knowing nature: Contact, emotion, compassion, meaning, and beauty are pathways to nature

connection” this word is part of a larger hypothesis known as the “Biophilia Hypothesis” which states that because
humanity has been shaped "cognitively and emotionally over time through interactions with nature” we have
developed “a need and desire to affiliate with life or lifelike processes”.

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hard corners and severe lines of city life and into the graceful, strange and surprising forms16
found in organic spaces.
These spaces are mental, emotional and physical outlets. I’ve always considered the days I spend
away from the city to be periods in which I’m able to reset myself. The demands of technology,
work, and even my artistic practice, which is at every other time all-consuming, are stripped
away. I’m able to reorient myself. When hiking, especially if the trail is hard and I’m hours out
from the city, I enter a world with a single purpose—living— as I move from one place to the
next. The episodic nature of my normal life dissolves and I can live simply and enjoy the other
lives around me.17
Aside from my personal experience, engaging with nature is beneficial for the wider
environment. Human beings who can feel a positive connection to nature are more likely to hold
“pro-environmental attitudes” as well as a willingness to sacrifice for the betterment of a natural
system.18 As someone who cherishes the natural spaces I’m able to set foot in, this is an
undeniably positive side effect of spending time outdoors.
As much as I feel a part of these landscapes, and want to explore the relationship between myself
and the other non-human lives around me, I must acknowledge that I’m an uninvited guest here
in the Coast Salish territories. These lands are not mine, nor are they those of the government
that permitted me to come here. I appreciate, work on, and explore the unceded territory of the
Coast Salish Peoples, including the territories of the Musqueam, Squamish, and Tsleil-Waututh
Nations.
The spaces I create, and the elements that go into them, are influenced by literature, nature and
science writing, as well as visual and non-visual artists. I take cues and expand my understanding
of human relationships with natural spaces by reading work by fiction writers, scholars and
environmentalists such as Stan Rowe, David Abram, Emma Marris and Jeff VanderMeer.

16 Elements of the “strange” and the “surprising” are going to become important later in the paper when I discuss

my process.

17 In “Engagement with natural beauty moderates the positive relation between connectedness with nature and

psychological well-being” it is demonstrated that those who “engage with nature's beauty (i.e. experience positive
emotional response when witnessing nature’s beauty)” report “more subjective well-being”.
In “The relationship between nature connectedness and happiness: a meta-analysis” research shows these feelings
are comparable to higher “income and education”.
18 As reported in "Beyond knowing nature: Contact, emotion, compassion, meaning, and beauty are pathways to

nature connection”.

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With these influences, as well as a background of natural exploration and connection, I have
entered into a new period of artistic production in which I focus on my experiences with my
materials, the work in progress, and the final installation(s).19 One of my recent works titled,
Cracking veins, breathing skin—wind (figure 1) is an example of how my process has evolved
from a preoccupation with a viewer’s perceptions to an interest in expressing life as I see and
experience it.
For this installation, I drew, painted, and cut out imaginary, segmented bodies of insects and
arachnids. These were combined with a variety of botanical elements. Through this process, I
created a range of insect-plant hybrids and populated a watercolour, paper tree with them. Within
this tree, one is hopefully unable to tell what is an insect, and what is a leaf. This lack of ready
knowledge is conceptually important to me as I try to embody what it means to grow, transform,
and be alive alongside other living things, without borders.
As I’ve developed this process of installation and delved deeper into the impact I want the
finished works to have, scale has become important. When I, or a viewer, walk into a room in
which I’ve installed one or more of my finished pieces, I want to feel as though I’ve entered into
a space that is overwhelming, infinitely detailed and in the process of becoming more so through
growth and transformation. To an extent, this is accomplished through the size in which I craft
these works. Cracking veins, breathing skin—wind is one of the larger pieces I’ve created. It’s
approximately 5.5 feet tall and 4.5 feet wide. I want to be able to walk up to my paper
installations and feel as though they’re as much a part of the world as I am. They are dominant in
the spaces they inhabit and as they come together, and more works populate one gallery space,
they sweep across the walls, onto the floor and through the air above my head.
Additionally, through Cracking veins, breathing skin—wind, I attempted to introduce elements of
the human body. The truck of the tree is distinctly unusual. I hoped to twist and turn the tree in
fantastical ways and make use of a texture on the trunk that is closer to greying human skin than
bark. This practice of including human elements, or parts that allude to the human body within
my installations, is only just beginning. With the final thesis exhibition in mind, I am currently
working on a large piece in which veins, human and non-human, play a dominant role. In the
future, I intend to push these connections further. The more I can include elements of the human
in my work, the more I believe human presence will be seen as part, but only one small part, of
the larger ecosphere.
The ecosphere is one of the topics that ecologist, writer and thinker Stan Rowe speaks about
extensively and has become foundational to my practice. It is a word used to refer to the Earth as
19Each step of my process will be described in greater detail in the “Process” section

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(Figure 1) Cracking veins, breathing skin—wind (2019)
Paper, watercolour, watercolour pencil, pen, and nails
5.5’x4.5’

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one organism made up of an infinite number of smaller parts. I appreciate the sense of unity that
is built into this way of thinking. It connects every organic and non-organic part of the earth into
one inclusive, wonderfully complex space. This includes everything humans have learned to
value, such as “untouched” (but very much still touched) spaces in National Parks, and the weeds
growing in parking lots.
In the article “Ecocentrism and Traditional Ecological Knowledge,” Rowe speaks on ecocentrism
or the theory that the earth, rather than humanity, is the “Life-center” and the “creative center.” It
is important in my practice to consider, as Rowe states, the earth as “the whole of which we are
subservient parts.”

(Figure 2) Cracking veins, breathing skin—wind (2019) detail

In my installation spaces, I hope the viewer feels as I do when I step into the forest or walk along
the shoreline. I am, as they are, one functioning, “subservient” part of a much larger system of
life. We live, interact, find joy and sorrow as beings among other equally important beings.

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Lives, living alongside other lives which we may or may not recognize as kin. I intend to imbue
my works with these feelings of kinship, as well as solidarity in the pursuit of continued life.

In my current body of work, I stretch my knowledge of natural forms and challenge myself to go
beyond their basic shapes. The new forms of life I create have evolved into flourishing
representations of the ecosphere, in all its infinite variations20 that I, and hopefully the viewer as
well, will find exciting, reminiscent of affectively poignant moments outside of city spaces, and
as embodiments of connection, transformation and growth.

Considerations of Space
As my work has progressed over the last year and a half I’ve turned away from using reference
material and started depending much more heavily on myself and what I can imagine. But, I find
it important to note that I am only able to create from what I know, and what I know is our
world. 21 Therefore, when viewers observe my finished installations they can sometimes spot
shapes they recognize, but everything has been expanded with the intent of emphasizing a
feeling of wonder and joy and the potential of, and for, transformation. They come from a place
in which there are no rules, except to move forward, change, and make connections.
One artist with whom I feel my work relates is Jenny Kendler. Specifically, I look towards her
installation Tell It to the Birds (Figure 3) as an example of how artists can remind a viewer of
their connection to the larger natural world. This installation is described on the artist’s website
as “[…] an attempt to bridge the experiential gap between human and non-human animal
minds.” Kendler created a “dwelling-like dome,” with a shape suggestive of “animal-built
structures”.
Within the dome, there was a concealed microphone. A visitor was encouraged to speak into the
microphone and “confess something to the natural world that they feel other people or the human
world might not understand”. Kendler utilized specialty software to “translate” the human words
into “birdsong”.

20 Examples to come in the three works presented in this paper.
21 I have actively sought since beginning this project to expand my understanding of natural flora and fauna, as well

as the more generalized patterns of the natural world, by studying plant and animal species from around the world.

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When speaking about her installation, Kendler suggested that a visitor might want to “confess
something to the natural world about our relationship with nature itself— to speak of a lack, a
trespass, a neglect”. She is interested in the way human relationships to nature change as we
grow older and she sought to remind visitors to her work that: “[…] nature is alive because we
are still (and always) embedded within our animal bodies. We are blood, bone, guts, bacteria —
we are multitudes, ourselves an ecosystem — mortal and fully animal, no matter how our culture
may try to ignore this fact.” I agree with the way Kendler considers human experience as it shifts
through time and age. Also, her position about the need to reconsider one’s place within the
larger ecosphere.

(Figure 3) Jenny Kendler, Tell it to the Birds

It was while thinking about spaces, and the creation of new and strange ones that depict
interconnectivity, that I realized there was a deep source of inspiration I could mine—my
appreciation for the worlds of science fiction and speculative fiction.

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I was raised by book and movie lovers. My parents were Trekkies, and taught me from a young
age to idealize worlds like those conceived by Gene Roddenberry22. A love for these other
worlds, and the strange people and creatures they contained permeated my youth. I only now
recognize the beauty and deeper possibility in their pioneering societies. In the many different
series of Star Trek, there is at the root of the protagonists’ intent a desire for coexistence. Species,
races, genders— animal, human, or android— none of that matters. It is a desire to live among
and connected to other lives that is at the forefront of the Star Trek books, television series, and
movies.
I realized late in my experience within the MFA program that there were no limits to what could
draw inspiration from. I know now that tapping into science fiction is one more important source
that fuels my practice.
When I consider the spaces that I’m creating or those I want to create in the future, I find myself
returning to fantastical and surprising stories of first contact. I consider the alien landscapes of
the film Avatar and the speculative and mind-boggling possibilities introduced at the end of
Arthur C. Clarke’s genre-changing of 2001: A Space Odyssey. I am intrigued by the complex
worlds created in novels such as Robert A. Heinlein’s Stranger in a Strange Land and Do
Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? by Philip K. Dick, as well as its much more famous film
adaption, Blade Runner.
These movies, television shows and novels speak to me of the fantastical. They encourage me to
push myself beyond that which I know and tap into the colours, shapes, and forms of the strange
and unusual. When working on this thesis project I made choices based on this encouragement. I
sought out bright, whimsical, and joyful colours, patterns, and designed complicated life forms to
convey something of the joy and possibility I feel in natural spaces and when engaging with the
content of the science fiction genre.
Some of the most influential works of fiction I read while working on my thesis project were Jeff
Vandermeer’s Southern Reach trilogy, specifically the novel Annihilation. The series chronicles
the endeavours of human beings who penetrate a closed-off ecosystem. With this portion of land
separated from the rest by a massive mystical wall, a transformation occurs within.
Growth is expedited and sent on baffling trajectories. VanderMeer creates a world within a world
that breaks natural laws, and expands and changes without restrictions. Some of these changes
are undeniably beautiful, others are horrifying and deadly. Despite the inevitable tragedies that

22 The creator of Star Trek.

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occur in the novels, everything that happens within this plot of land, referred to as Area X, is
remarkable.
The scientists who investigate Area X are baffled and become obsessed with the novel ways in
which plants and animals merge (share features, as well as grow into and out of one another),
transform, take on human characteristics, and learn. Throughout the novel, the researchers
attempt to control, understand and restrain Area X’s growth. This only results in their drawing
closer to the organisms and the larger ecosystem they’re investigating. Some disappear into its
depths, willingly consumed by other awe-inspiring, sentient lifeforms while others are driven
mad by the undeniable, otherworldly presence that resides at the heart of Area X.
I take inspiration most directly from the feeling the spaces within Area X evoke, ones of mystery,
connectivity and transformation. VanderMeer’s main character, a nameless female biologist,
when speaking about her journey through the novel ecosystem described it as:
“[…] walking forever on the path from the border to base camp. It is taking a long time, and I
know it will take even longer to get back. There is no one with me. I am all by myself. The trees
are not trees the birds are not birds and I am not me but just something that has been walking for
a very long time […]”
She, along with the other scientists, lost themselves in the evolving chaos of Area X. They
became a part of the ecosystem in a way they could never have imagined before entering into it.
So too do I want to utilize my installations to create an all-consuming world that appears to learn,
grow and change before a viewer’s eyes, adopt characteristics of its neighbouring life forms, and
even the human viewer standing before it.
The Southern Reach trilogy, as well as the other works of fiction mentioned in this paper have
something in common: an investigation of the unknown. A journey into a world that’s surprising,
emotionally affective, and just recognizable enough for the human onlooker to feel a connection.
These places allow us as viewers and readers to know despite our surface-level differences, there
is a vibrating thread of aliveness that runs through and connects all species, on Earth or any other
world, real or imagined. I would like to imbue my installations with this liveliness and allow my
viewers a chance to question their place in the hierarchy of unknown natural spaces.
It is not just writers and visual artists I’ve learned from and found myself challenged by. I would
be doing a disservice to my practice and my transformation as an artist if I did not consider the
influence that David Bowie and his vast oeuvre of music has had on the way I work. It has been
through the consumption and adoration of his joy-filled and often sci-fi inspired albums that I

16

learned what it means to accept change not just as a necessity, but as something beautiful and
worth pursuing.
Approximately a year ago, after I engulfed myself in his body of work, I realized there was more
to be gained by taking risks, making bold choices and pushing myself, than there was in
remaining in a familiar world I knew I could control. It was with his direction that I allowed
myself to put aside well-worn concepts and consider my personal connection to my practice. Just
as through his music he created a new landscape for himself in amongst the dreary sights of the
late-sixties post-hippie boom, I have shaped a world of possibility in my own.
Bowie transitioned from one style, fashion, and personality to the next, showing himself to be an
incredible, multifaceted artist unafraid to face criticism in the pursuit of what he knew was the
next step in his artistic growth. I have come to admire his willingness to transform. He shifted
from one vibrant iteration of himself to the next, taking his musical style along with him.
Among his many changes was a consistent interest in science fiction, what it means to feel alien
or to be a stranger in a strange land. He understood and conveyed through songs like “Sunday”
and “Memory of a Free Festival” what it feels like to live in “times such as these” and embrace
encounters with the strange.
I’ve found in David Bowie’s music a fearlessness and willingness to engage with themes similar
to those which I have touched on throughout my thesis project. I try to embody my installations
with the same feeling of liveliness through transformation (as seen through subject matter and
material) and a joy of engagement with the possible and impossible. In my work, one shape
becomes another, referencing the patterns of natural spaces, known and unknown forms, and
always alluding to a future that’s very different, but no less wonderful, than the present and past.
My consideration of space, human and non-human interaction and transformation would not be
the same without the influence of Jenny Kendler, Jeff VanderMeer, David Bowie and the broader
influence of science fiction. These artists and writers provided me with the push I needed to
embrace the affective nature of my works and value my own experiences within natural spaces.
For the next few pages, I would like to dedicate the bulk of my paper to my process. I’ve chosen
to take this step to adequately address the considerations I make along the way, as well as delve
into the ecosystem-like qualities of my practice.

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(Figure 4) The humming of little legs wings-beating water air (2019)
Paper, watercolour, watercolour pencil, pen, clay, glue, and nails
6’x2.5’

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Process in Practice
No matter the combinations, extensions or elaborations I come up with for my natural forms,
they always have a few things in common. They live, they change, and they seek to depict
moments of awe and wonder in nature. It’s important when I begin mapping out an installation to
consider the larger form I want to create on the wall, ceiling or floor. This comes to me as I
envision my reaction to the work (if it was complete). I often ask myself, what would I feel if I
came upon this installation? What would it remind me of? Would it convey the principles that are
so important to the spaces I’m striving to construct?

(Figure 5) The humming of little legs wings-beating water air detail

When I begin drawing, I consider these questions and how they apply to my own understanding
of form and my body’s interaction with form. As I draw, I seek to seize upon my past experiences
and channel the lively feeling of twisting, ever-changing nature into my imagery. It is my goal to
create images that appear to be shifting and transforming. Through these images, my markmaking, and compositional choices, I would like to create an image of the natural world that is in

19

flux rather than frozen in graphite. I hope my installations as a whole will speak to this even
more clearly.
When selecting paper, I always make use of any leftover pieces I have from previous works. This
means that the paper I’m drawing on is often an unusual size and shape. Sometimes, those sizes
force me to make different decisions than I might have naturally done. I believe this process of
working from leftover paper, in addition to new sheets, makes my hand and gestures more
spontaneous. This technique speaks to the reactive installation process that is elaborated on later
in the text, as well as the cyclical process of creating, discarding, rejuvenating and reusing at the
heart of my art-making practice.
When it comes to painting, I’ve chosen to make use of watercolour. I take pleasure in the
unpredictable nature of the paint. No matter how prolific I become at its manipulation, at times it
seems to move of its own accord. The opacity and translucency vary, the layers dry unevenly,
and colours are more often than not inconsistent with that which was advertised. I have to think
on my toes, make decisions in the moment and act reactively. I always try to utilize this to my
advantage and embrace the unforeseeable outcomes.
For an example of how I’ve used painting in my art practice to merge, enhance and prolong my
emotional connection to natural spaces, I look to another recent work titled The humming of little
legs wings-beating water air. In one portion of this installation, I considered what it would mean
to combine two very different, but living, elements. I used the general shape of shelf fungus, but
rather than making use of the natural browns and greens found in nature, I chose to take my
inspiration from the shapes, colours, and textures of the shoreline, with overlapping rocks, sand,
and waves. By painting the movement of the water on the shore, as well as the colours and
patterns that are left behind (through the discolouration and shape of rocks, sand and stone), I
tried to make visible the vicissitudes of time and the possibilities inherent in changing tides.
When a form is painted to my satisfaction, and all the details I want to achieve are complete, I let
it dry and turn to pen. By using a pen I’m able to add layers of texture and interest to the shapes.
For example, on one small flower, a few stray marks might be enough to give it an added layer of
dimension, but on a larger work, I can spend hours meditating on a single piece, trying to figure
out what else it needs, and how the life form might be further accentuated. By doing so, every
lovely, skin tingling and squirm-inspiring bump, crease, and wrinkle will be clearly defined when
it’s finally on the wall.
I consider the utilization of clay to be an emergent part of my practice. It was fairly recently I
concluded that adding clay sculptures into my installation could increase my ability to accurately
and substantially conceive of three-dimensional forms. For example, I found myself recently

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(Figure 6) One piece of Cracking veins, breathing skin—wind in progress

wanting to depict one creature emerging from the centre of a fruit-like plant. It came to me that
the best way to accomplish this would be through using clay in addition to the paper. Since then

21

I’ve been experimenting with the ways that clay and paper can come together to speak to the
layers of my ecosystems. (Clay elements can be seen in figure 5.)
In terms of the treatment of clay, I let it air dry, and then cover it with a cold press watercolour
ground. This means that when dry, the clay is covered in a texture that varies between looking
like hair, dirt or bark. Then, I can return to my watercolours and paint the clay forms exactly as I
would if they were made of paper.
In regards to the paper, it is after the pen is applied that I begin cutting. Depending on the shapes,
this part of the process can be the longest and the most time-consuming. I can spend all day
working on a single sheet of paper, trying to remove the negative space without deconstructing
the painted areas. By choosing to cut out the individual paper pieces that make up the final
installations I’ve given myself the power to make more additions and subtractions. I’m able to
cut away portions of the forms I’ve grown uncomfortable with, and even cut apart and put back
together, with paper tape and glue, parts that I never intended to have next to one another.
When working this way, hunched over my desk, with both hands and wrists aching from
gripping the paper and the handle of the X-acto knife, I think a lot about time and how it fits into
my practice. From beginning to end, one finished installation can take weeks of six-hour days, or
even months. I started to ask myself why this was important to me. Why do I enjoy this timeconsuming process and why does it make sense for my practice? Surely (as I have been told),
there has to be a faster way to get a similar result?23 I’ve heard out these arguments, from myself
and others and have come to the conclusion that without my hand intimately involved in every
step of the process I lose my role in its creation.24
These works are about my relationship to natural spaces and my desire to continue that
relationship after an excursion into the woods or to the shoreline is complete. Therefore, to lose
my hand in this process, would be to sever my relationship and cut the line that connects me to
the spaces from which I was originally energized.
While the previous steps are time-consuming, the next part can be the most intensive. I consider
the various pieces of my installation and the ways they overlap one another. In some cases, I
have as many as five different layers I want, one on top of the other, on the wall. When I’m ready
to start the final phase, I take all the pieces down and lay them out on the floor. From there, I’m
able to attach a nail, pin or wire to the back of each piece, depending on where (and at what
depth) I want to install it.
23 More often than not, someone else is posing this question, often implying the laser cutter would be a better choice.
24 Not to mention losing all feeling of spontaneity.

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(Figure 7) Compost box of temporarily discarded paper

My choices while I install are almost entirely reactive. When the pieces are mounted on the wall,
I know that any designs I had about the outcome are going to dissolve. I start with the layer with
the least depth and hammer the paper with a soft mallet until it is where I want it. After finishing

23

(Figure 8) Burrowed with sun skin and new days (2019)
Paper, watercolour, watercolour pencil, pen, glue, and nails
6’’x4’

24

the first layer I move on through the second, the third, and so on until every piece of watercolour
paper and clay25 is on the wall.
The paper I use is malleable, therefore it can be bent and woven in with other sheets. For
example, if one piece of paper has two nails on it, one on either side, I can hammer one nail
deeper into the wall than the other to increase the feeling of movement. I could also bring the
nails closer together than they should be, distorting my original form, forcing the paper to press
out from the wall, bending itself into various waving and twisting shapes. This factor of my
process allows me to make it seem as if the pieces are moving or even growing as a viewer
observes them. Additionally, through the processes of overlapping and interweaving, I can make
the forms seem as interconnected as possible.
This feeling of growth is crucial. Through the manipulation of my materials, and the vibrant
liveliness I imbue my creations with, I am trying to recreate for myself a world of living,
changing, and free lifeforms. As the installation goes onto the wall, I can move the individual
pieces around, take them away and even add into the growing work painted paper cut-outs from
other previous pieces that had been temporarily discarded. The very last step of my process is to
choose and direct the lighting. The more shadows that a piece can cast the more complicated it
seems. From a viewer’s perspective, the pieces can appear doubled or tripled, and their
complexity is increased. The shadows propel my works out of the two-dimensional world and
into the three-dimensional.
This was the case with one of my recently completed pieces, Burrowed with sun skin and new
days. This piece is also an important example of where my work started and where it is now, in
addition to how I use and reuse materials in a mimicking of the natural recycling of life and
death within the larger world.

Burrowed with sun skin and new days and Reuse of Past Works
When I first started working on the piece that would become Burrowed with sun skin and new
days (figure 8) my goal was to make as many cut out paper pieces as possible, all of which
would resemble branches, leaves, and grasses. But, months after I started it, my work had
changed directions. I became interested, as I am now, in alluding to an interior ecological
relationship at the heart of each of my installations, in addition to creating awe-inspiring mini25 When it comes to hanging clay I take two different approaches. First, ustlizsing prepared holes on the back of

sculptures, or placing nails in specific locations in order to support heavier forms. These are disguised with
watercolour gesso and paint so that they blend in with the clay.

25

worlds to explore. Therefore, I decided to go beyond the shapes I had been creating and include
different, colourful and amorphous organic life forms. This was the perfect opportunity to make
use of the collection I’ve amassed of discarded, previously painted and cut out forms.26
The pieces I picked were altered to fit into this installation. This meant cutting them apart,
repainting, and adding more pen (and sometimes tossing back into the box). By the end, I had
taken parts from four different previous unsuccessful installations to complete, what I believe to
be the successful, Burrowed with sun skin and new days. By physically transforming my

(Figure 9) David Altmejd Untitled (2006)
Figure removed due to copyright restrictions. The information removed is a sculpture of a head that appears to be both animal/human.

materials, taking apart old work and reusing the pieces for new works, I can act as an ecosystem
and recycle my parts for the next life form.

26 These temporarily discarded pieces live in a box in my studio I fondly refer to as my compost bin.

26

The affective nature of these spaces feels similar to that created by Jenny Kendler, but they are
populated by life forms that I feel are even more related to those crafted by David Altmejd. His
manner of production has been extremely influential in my understanding of how the
arrangement of various elements, conceptual and physical, can be broken down and
reconstructed. The multidisciplinary nature of Altmejd’s work evokes a strangeness and wonder
in its blurring of distinct surfaces, human and animal features, and imaginary anatomies.
Particularly I find a link between his series of semi-human sculptures such as Untitled, 2006
(figure 9). His pieces are extraordinarily complicated and layered. Each addition to the initial
form adds another awe-inspiring detail that is at times both disturbing and beautiful.
When speaking about his work Altmejd says that he is “interested in complexity as a form.” It is
his practice to rely on his intuition rather than a specific intention in his quest to “create energy.”
As I consider the impact of my installations, and the way they are beginning to function as
ecosystems, I relate to Altmejd’s description of his installations “as organism[s]”. When
considering his work, he described the initial process as “making something” but then “at a
certain point [the work] starts making choices by itself.”27

Cycles and Changes
Due to the nature of my materials, my installations change every time I put them on the wall,
floor or ceiling. They fall apart from overuse, I tear them while taking off the nails, I lose or
forget pieces while moving from one place to the next. Sometimes pieces end up in the trash
along with other paper scraps. This is all part of the world of ecological relationships I’ve been
speaking about throughout this paper. It’s something I’ve come to embrace as part of a cycle of
life and death. I believe these factors only contribute to my larger goal of creating a space that
evokes the same wonder I feel in my best moments outdoors, and one that looks as though it is
continuing to change and grow before the viewer’s eyes.28
The way I put my work together, as has been outlined in the previous sections on drawing,
painting, cutting and installation is inspired by the way I consider ecosystems. The words that
come to mind, and that I remind myself of as I’m thinking about projects, are transformation,
interconnectivity, and wonder. I consider the depth of natural spaces and how all manner of life,
no matter its size in human eyes, holds an important place in the running of that system.

27 As quoted on guggenheim.org
28A lot of the time, the work really is moving and changing as the paper shifts, falls and rearranges itself.

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Each of my installations tells its own story but is also part of a larger story of interconnectivity.
The works on their own, and when they are shown together, remind me of the small part I have
to play in a much larger world, as well as the gulf of information that separates me from fully
understanding the web of life and all its endless intricacies and possibilities. As I move forward
into the next stages of my thesis project I intend to do as David Bowie suggested and “sail to the
hinterland”.29

Conclusion
Despite the unavoidable circumstances of early 2020 that kept the majority of my cohort from
being able to install our final thesis exhibitions, I have learned a great deal about my practice and
where I intend to take it next. While I was preparing for this exhibition, creating new work and
altering old, I had one immediate goal in mind: I wanted to enhance the way I engaged with
those who entered into my exhibition space. I intended to create an all-encompassing experience
for my viewers where the work appeared not only on the walls but also on the floors and hanging
from the ceilings.
In my final thesis exhibition, which I was planning on titling Movement under flickering wet skin
—whispering above, I would have had three walls, the ceiling, and the floor to work with. I
intended to engage on a deeper and more thoughtful level with the human viewer. I sought to
bring them, and myself, into a space of discovery, discomfort, joy, recognition and
contemplation. It hoped that upon entering into the world I had crafted, viewers would be
encouraged to reconsider, or at least question, their perceived dominant position within all
natural spaces.
I planned on accomplishing this by allowing more entry points and connections to the body as
one moves through the gallery. This would have been in addition to a greater emphasis and focus
on my hand at work. I am present in my installations as the conduit between an experience and a
reinvestigation of that experience. Through drawing and painting I am translating my affective
moments in natural spaces into a language I hope others can engage with beneficially.
My final installation would have covered the majority of the three walls. I planned to reinstall the
three works discussed in this paper: Burrowed with sun skin and new days, The humming of little
legs wings-beating water air, and Cracking veins, breathing skin—wind. Among several other
clay-based projects, it was also my intention to feature my newest, largest, and most complex
installation on the central wall. While creating this as of yet untitled work I pushed myself to
29 Lyrics from the song “Red Sails” from the Lodger album.

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consider how creatures and plants, both alive and dead, benefit from a natural process of
recycling and rebirth. This work is reminiscent of a whale fall—the confluence of events that see
the dead body of a whale fall to the ocean floor. Once settled, it becomes a place of community
and nourishment where life gathers and flourishes.

(Figure 10) Burrowed with sun skin and new days detail

In this installation a careful viewer can see everything from a shimmering, half-dead snake and
miniaturized marsupials, to mouse-like creatures with plant growths and a flock of bird-plant
hybrids that populate the bones of the long-dead behemoth.
In addition to this larger example of a fantastical, and I hope surprisingly joyful ecosystem, there
would have been scattered “scitterers" grouped on the floor. These paper and wire homes play
host to smaller lifeforms. One would have connected, through tubular roots, to another wallmounted installation. The floor pieces, as creatures in my imagined world, live as they choose,
acting out a strange and entrancing dance of mutualism. I envisioned an installation space in
which viewers could bend down and study the tiny spiders riding on the backs of these

29

bacterially-inspired scitterers and then trace their eyes over the shifting forms of my wall pieces
until they were drawn to the ceiling.
From there I intended to hang shapes that mimicked the forms on the floor. These are
microscopic lifeforms made macro. They range in size, depth, and colour but all are vibrant,
intricate. They would’ve spun carefully from colored thread. Some sprout hanging tendrils that
bridge the gap (almost) between the viewer and the life form’s central mass.
I hoped that my final, collected installation would vibrate with its own unstable stability.
Everything I intended to depict within it would have been in flux, traveling from one
recognizable starting point to an unforeseeable future destination. There were no finished forms,
compositions, or designs. My thesis installation was going shift, unwilling to find a single final
iteration.
This feeling of aliveness I imbue my works with is a successful depiction of my experiences
within natural space. Although at this point these works have not been installed, I can still feel
their possibilities developing. I know when they do finally make it onto the wall, floor, and
ceiling that they’ll be a representation of my body’s movements and experiences and engage with
my larger ideas about what landscape, nature, and life can be.
My concept of space and nature, as mentioned earlier in the paper, first developed when I read
books like Emma Marris’ Rambunctious Gardening and others such as Ken Thompson's Where
Do Camels Belong? I became interested in how various evolutions or transformations of a space
(as I engage in through my process of reusing materials) can impact a human viewer and their
perceived position in the created, ideological hierarchy of nature. This is something that I intend
to continue pursuing in the future. I believe it to be a fertile space in which I can play with our
notions of what has value in the natural world and what does not. I would like to further
complicate my perception of what nature is, and my ability to spend time within it, as I move
forward.
Through the process of my thesis project, I’ve realized that this work has been staged as a
reaction to the environmental moment we are in. I present my thesis project not as an answer to
the climate crisis but rather as a place of possibility. I am suggesting worlds and boundless
organic life born from borderless encounters. I am asking my own questions about the future and
then taking those questions apart, and asking them differently.
I would like my viewers to walk away from my installations reminded that they are alive as
dandelions, white pine beetles, and crows are alive. That we are all struggling, thriving, and

30

transforming together in a world that’s endlessly complicated, as fragile as paper, and as strong
as we can imagine it to be.

31

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