I Know Not Where

A plurality of narratives exist within any apparently linear text; a multitude of different paths are on offer, if only we care to look beyond the tyranny of the straight line.

walked alone:

low ferns
advances of stitchwort
found under trees

ceaseless lark
small furze spinning
a thin strange brook
perpetual murmur

A detour through Dorothy Wordsworth’s Alfoxden Journal, in preparation for work in a forthcoming exhibition at the Wordsworth Trust.

Inter / Disinter for Violin

Burying small instruments in the soil and later exhuming them has been an instinctual gesture which I’ve made for many years, although I’ve never publicly documented the process, preferring to allude to it in writing.

“Bowed, plucked and chafed steel strings. The sound of stones gently rubbed together. Soft soil sprinkled on resonant wooden bodies. Grasses and leaves intertwined around neck and fretboard. Bone and wood plectra. Sound folded on sound. A collusion of place and instrument.”

Until recently I’ve never really thought about how these discrete, private actions fit into a broader cultural and historical context, but whilst researching the folklore of East Anglia, I came across this definition of ‘contagious magic’ which perfectly encapsulates the main impulse behind such gestures – the idea of a connection through touch: “contagious or touching magic – things that have once been in contact will always be linked however distant from one another they become”.

For me the process of burial is also a way of relinquishing control and ownership, and a form of petition – a surrendering of the instrument in the hope that it may be returned transformed, that in so doing my own creative process may become part of something larger. In this respect it is not so much a ‘burial’ as an act of ‘sowing’, and the subsequent exhumation is a form of ‘harvest’.

Recently I was commissioned by AV Festival to produce a new work in response to the theme of ‘extraction’. The idea of making a public work comprising a burial/exhumation seemed to resonate, although I was – and still am – ambivalent about documenting what has been, until now, a private act. Nevertheless, on January 17th I visited an area of Newcastle (where the festival is held) called Ouseburn. With no-one else present I chose a location and dug a small pit, placing a number of unspecified objects with the violin and gently sprinkled soil over it, until it was covered. I marked the location with a small cairn and left. The process took little over an hour in rapidly fading light.


Today, one month later, I returned to disinter the instrument. Although the action of soil and water on a musical instrument cannot help but be detrimental – with repeated or prolonged exposure rendering it ‘unusable’ in the conventional sense – I was quite unprepared for how significantly the violin had been transformed.


In a mere 31 days, persistent, heavy rain filtering through shallow soil had rendered the violin an archaeological relic. Each of its many glued joints had opened to moisture, its sides had collapsed inwards, and its back had fused with the earth – such that when I attempted to raise it from the ground it lifted clean apart. All that I could do was to gently excavate each part in turn, trying to avoid further splits or breakages. In no other circumstance have the funerary aspects of this process been brought alive in such an emphatic way.


Over the next month I will be ‘extracting’ sounds from the violin, and I can’t help but feel a certain violence in this use of language – a sense that, in some way, I will be interrogating the dead. These, at least, are my initial feelings – but then I must remember, too, that I wished to be a part of that complex web of life and death when I initially made such gestures on Anglezarke Moor; that there is always something picking over the bones of another:

As the instrument has partaken
of the landscape – its body
bequeathed to soil, and later
exhumed –
so, a bond is made.

A pairing of movements. Of gestures.

The second finger hovers over the third fret.
The swift downwards stroke of the bow.
Kill note.

The string stopped with a feather touch.
A piercing cry.

And on the moor’s edge
the red-brown bird takes up again.
Bridges the air above the Yarrow.
Its hunger momentarily sated.

(Quoted from Landings)

Frozen Glyphs


In early December I was briefly in residence at Snape Maltings, Suffolk, in preparation for the forthcoming ‘Faster Than Sound’ event on March 21st. It wasn’t my intention to begin work upon a piece of music, or to gather materials that might feed into the process of composition. I simply wanted to spend some solitary time residing in the landscape – to acclimatise, and – on some level – to ‘come to terms’ with the place itself. In normal circumstances, getting to know a new landscape happens quite slowly. It unfolds gradually. I wrote in a recent post, Findings, that I have been walking almost daily through the valley in which I currently reside for over 18 months – without a view to ‘responding’, other than through tactful consciousness of my own presence in the landscape. Walking the same solitary path for this duration of time has made me aware of the literal impact of my own footprint. I sometimes feel that I am solely responsible for keeping the path – a situation which makes me feel uneasy.


At Snape Maltings, therefore, any ‘getting to know’ could only be at best superficial. Nevertheless, I felt it important as a gesture: any amount of time, no matter how small, spent in such a manner, is never wasteful. This process was made difficult, however, by a number of complicating factors – chief among them the necessity of negotiating the ‘built environment’. The natural landscape that interested me was the Alde Estuary, with its associated reed-beds, mudflats and river banks, and although the generously donated artist’s studio overlooked a beautiful expanse of wetland towards Iken, it also abutted the large complex of shops, restaurants, galleries, concert halls and residential buildings that collectively comprise ‘Snape Maltings’.


Perhaps I should mention here that my usual day-to-day life is quite solitary – days can quite happily go by in the valley during which I don’t see another person, save for my wife, Autumn. I therefore found it difficult, initially, to adjust – but in retrospect, perhaps the unease that I felt reflects the problems inherent in trying to observe the distinction between ‘man-made’ and ‘natural’; the perils of dwelling on one to the exclusion of the other. In terms of the environment itself, the river Alde was a busy port as far back as the late 15th century, with the ‘Maltings’ complex being built in the early 19th century – the extent to which human settlement and industry has shaped the natural landscape must therefore be considerable.


My stay in Suffolk coincided with a period of heavy tidal surges – the most violent for over half a century. Towns and villages all along the coast received flood warnings, and many were prepared for evacuation. The Snape Maltings complex itself, despite being five miles inland, was under threat from flood water that might surge, aegir-like, back up the river from the sea. As it turned out, the buildings narrowly escaped, although the inundation in the surrounding landscape was plain to see; reed-beds were flattened, defences were breached, fields flooded and farm animals died.


In many ways, this episode dramatically highlighted what might be perceived as an inherent ‘conflict’ between mankind and nature – one that is aptly summarised in this sign, which I discovered out on the marshland path the preceding day:

The River Fights Back : In places along the banks of the river Alde, land was once claimed from the river to create farmland. Defences were built to protect this claimed land. Over the centuries the river has broken through again. The remnants of the defences are still visible, stretching out into the estuary.

But in the aftermath of the flood, I walked along the paved perimeter of the building complex and noticed that it was marked with the bodies of dead worms, killed, perhaps, by the encroaching salt water which had since receded. I couldn’t help but wonder at what kind of testimony was hidden amongst these contorted shapes? They seemed to me to story a miniature apocalypse – the frozen glyphs of a silent agony, a series of mimetic, accusatory gestures, alluding to the nature of their killer – the river itself. What struck me most forcibly, however, was this thought: that although we are apt to characterise ‘violent’ nature as an anti-human aggressor, nature itself makes no such distinction, and inflicts damage and devastation without favour or prejudice.



Towards the end of my stay, despite my intention to resist the urge to ‘make work’, I began to make a series of drawings, some of which are scattered throughout this post. With hindsight, I can’t help but think there is something of that violence in them, something of those ‘frozen glyphs’ that I saw in the early morning after the floods. Another memory also stays with me – that I saw, on the day before the floods, a single, stunted oak tree, growing amongst the reeds in a low-lying field. I visited the area the next day. It was bitterly cold and the whole field was submerged, with not a hint visible of what lay beneath. I remember staring at the spot where the oak stood, in those watery depths, until I could stand it no longer, and turned away.