February Wood Observations: Sap Begins to Rise
Late winter is a still time in the Wild Rumpus woods, sap rises, seeds stir, things gather unseen. In your work, how do you feel ideas, rituals, or traditions stirring before they are fully visible?
A couple of years ago, I decided to approach my practice more seasonally, following the rhythms of nature and my own body wherever possible to create better harmony between the weather outside, the weather internally and the creative tasks at the top of my to-do list. Although it doesn’t always work out that way, I like to really lean into the darkness and chill of winter—especially in the early months of a new year—and allow myself to be as hermit-like and reflective as I want! It’s often a time for writing and research—which informs the directions of my visual work—and a chance to feel completely guilt-free about spending all evening reading. It’s like a coiling of the spring (or perhaps better, a coiling of the Spring!) when the brighter days are in sight on the horizon and I’m drawing up my energy to poke my head out of the soil again!
Your projects often reframe folk as a tool for contemporary resistance. If we think of tradition as a tree, which parts of folk culture do you prune, nurture, or graft to make space for new growth?
I think there’s always a good reason to prune the aspects of tradition that no longer serve us in the collective, and which no longer serve the planet on which we live. I take a purposefully broad view of folk as the ‘stuff we make, do and think for ourselves, and its radical potential’ so my emphasis is always more about becoming the ancestors we would like to be rather than preserving uncritically the things that we’ve inherited. I especially want to nurture a sense of shared ownership—and responsibility—for this process, and to invest in the infrastructures needed for folk cultures of all kinds to flourish, primarily creating more equitable living conditions for everyone, whatever their background or location.
“Dusking” is a fully invented ritual, playful and participatory. How do you decide which aspects of tradition to honour, and which to reinvent for radical inclusivity?
One of my folklore heroes, Georgina Boyes, who wrote The Imagined Village (a wonderful book on the *real* history of the folk movement in England) once said to me that ‘singing and dancing is traditional, not specific songs and dances’. I agree with this, and so Dusking is about reminding everyone that to dance for any reason—for joy, to mark the seasons, to connect with others—is in itself a traditional act. I was fortunate enough to grow up on the outskirts of the folk scene, and was a morris dancer for almost ten years, but I also know that many people feel excluded from the practice more formally on the grounds of gender, race, class, disability, or just lack access to the places to begin. I wanted to create an open invitation to everybody so inclined to join me in welcoming the darker half of the year, at sundown on 31 October with a short ‘hedge morris dance’. I provide resources for those who want to learn a few morris steps, but it’s also a total joy to witness all the varied and brilliant ways that people choose to interpret the brief. From beautifully stage-managed and choreographed pieces of performance art, to folks standing in their kitchen waving two tea towels. It has become, without doubt, one of my favourite events of the year!
In winter, trees store energy for spring. What forms of stored knowledge, personal, communal, or overlooked female-led traditions, do you draw on to create your projects?
I am endlessly inspired by the unique folklore of the North West of England, which was neglected by the early folklorists because it was the birthplace of the industrial revolution and scholars found it hard to believe that ‘authentic’ folk customs could issue from somewhere so fast-paced and mechanised. For this reason, a lot of Lancashire and Cheshire folk practices evolved quite distinctly from the folk revival movement growing to look and feel quite different in their presentation. Many of my favourite traditions are those which reveal themselves clearly as living practices, products of the here and now, which have changed many times over to remain relevant and meaningful to the communities who perform them. This is the kind of energy I want to bring to my projects.
If the sap rising under bark is a metaphor for your creative work, what in your projects functions like roots, what like buds, and what like the visible blossoms?
My ongoing research and archiving of contemporary folk communities is the roots, the conversations and connections I make with other artists and tradition bearers are the buds and my sculptures and performances are the visible blossoms. This is such a lovely metaphor, so thank you for prompting it!
