The power of Nature
The decision to utilise nature in my work has the potential to empower it with different and multiple meanings. The natural world is very emotive for humans, as Lucy Jones, in her book ‘Losing Eden: Why our minds need the wild’, explains,
“We are deeply entwined with the rest of nature on a linguistic and mental level; we have created our language, culture and consciousness - the most essential parts of human psychology from which our desires and preferences flow - within, and in close relationship to, the natural environment we have lived in for millennia.”
Because of this I began some research to see if there was any deeper meaning behind my choice to use natural materials.
I researched into,
the meanings behind plants as influenced by the Victorian ‘Language of Flowers’
how natural elements are used in witchcraft and general magical practice
how scientific research has proved that seeing and being in nature can help humans heal and make them happier
my feelings about nature and a sense of place
From all of these I think I found some elements of magical practice most interesting.
Looking into the symbolism behind plants and flowers reminded me of a podcast series I had listened to about witchcraft, Witch by India Rakusen (Rakusen, 2023). I listened to it again and was led to the book by Alice Tarbuck, ‘Spell in the Wild: A year (and six centuries) of magic’ (Tarbuck, 2020). In this book I found many of Tarbuck’s descriptions of witchcraft, echoed those of creative practice.
"If magic is the alteration of self and the world through exercise of will and attention, then every spell, every magical endeavour, is necessarily entirely personal. Even if we do try replicate other people's spells, we can't ever fully recreate another person's energy, the time or place or environmental factors that influence their casting. It is the same as never quite being able to recreate someone else's experience of living"
If you substitute the words magic and spells for creativity and artwork in the passage above then it is almost as if you are describing an approach to creative practice.
Tarbuck goes on to emphasise the importance of symbols in witchcraft and I found myself agreeing with her statement that symbols need to be personal,
“I believe that successful magical practice depends on understanding, inventing, marshalling a vocabulary of symbols that is personal to you, which can be set in configurations, whether in speech or ritual, to help direct your will".
She goes on to give examples of how personal objects can help in your magical practice.
"It is vital, then, to have a dictionary of symbols on which to draw: your own and those you find and adopt. And when you create your altar, it is useful to cover it in objects that are not necessarily overtly magical, but hold power for you. The potency of symbols often means that using your old baby cup as an offering vessel may hold more power than a perfect china cup inscribed with arcane symbols. All magic is deeply personal, even when it is executed collectively, and so only you will be able to find the right forms and symbols to communicate your will to the world." (Tarbuck, 2020, p.15)
I can also see now that I have an altar to my making (fig.22). The way I lay out the pieces I make, or am in the process of making, in a particular way and on a particular colour background, reminded me of Alice Tarbuck’s descriptions of an altar for her witchcraft practice.
“Dressing the altar always feels a lot like playing: arranging everything neatly, deciding what fabrics go together. And there is an extent to which the aesthetic of the altar can feel like an indulgence, a frippery. It isn’t, I don’t think. Beautiful spaces inspire reactions within us”.
I think working with nature has taught me about my own spirituality and given me, along with Pilates, the permission to be spiritual. This can be seen in my reaction to my completed series of necklaces created for the Synthesis project.
As I have worked through creating the series of necklaces, I kept thinking about how I would present them as a collection. I went through different ideas but looking at the completed necklaces I wondered if they should be presented in the order that I finished making them (fig.23).
This would show a change in my response to the material. A move from a controlled, planned way of working to a more responsive, possibly spiritual, or flow, way of making. This change can be seen in the last two necklaces I made, one from Meadow Buttercup stems (fig. 24) and one from dried Cirsium (Thistle) flowers (fig. 25).
Both these necklaces have a much lighter touch and they feel magical to me, I can’t believe I have made them. With the other necklaces it had felt a bit like I was beating them in to submission, telling the plants what I wanted them to do. With these last two necklaces it felt almost as if the plants had made them. Or if you consider James Leach and his theory of ‘dispersed creativity’ (Leach, 2004), the idea that these necklaces emerged from a meaningful combination – a conversation between myself and the materials.
I was also surprised that I liked these necklaces, especially after some of the challenges I had faced in making them. The Thistle necklace had been particularly frustrating, mostly because the things that made it magical, the delicate seeds that could blow away at any moment, were what made it hard to handle. In photographing it, I saw how scared I was of it, of handling it, of destroying it, but also knowing that I loved the ephemeral nature of it. I just needed some other people to see the magic I saw, before it disappeared.
This relationship between care and destruction reminded me of the folktale about the goddess of winter, the Cailleach. In Glen Lyon, in Scotland, there is a collection of stones that look like miniature human beings standing next to a miniature house (fig. 26). Legend has it that the stones represent the Cailleach, her husband Bodach and their children. They were given shelter in the glen by the local people and that whilst the Cailleach stayed there the land was fertile and prosperous. When the Cailleach and her family left, they gave the stones to the locals with the promise that as long as the stones were put out over the spring and summer, and then put away in the house again for winter, the glen would continue to be fertile. This practice is still carried out today. It shows how the local inhabitants of Glen Lyon are both fearful and caring of the destructive power of the goddess of winter.
My fear of the Thistle necklace, and the story of the Cailleach, made me think about the spirituality of my making. I wouldn’t consider myself particularly spiritual, but when making, yes. It has always been my meditation. However, creating these ephemeral necklaces has made me wary, but appreciative, of the precarious, destructive side of nature. It has also reminded me of one of my instructions, ‘keep playing and destroying’, and how I should be wary of wanting to control every aspect of my making practice and how I should accept things as they are.
Are the final two ephemeral necklaces I made in fact an offering? An offering to making? Makers talk of kiln gods, knitting gods and, after a disastrous session in the photography studio, I now realise there are also photography gods. These gods send you signs as you are making, that things aren’t working, that mistakes are being made. Through inexperience, and tiredness, you ignore these signs, through disappointing results, accidents and much experience you notice them and adjust your making as you go. You also pray to these gods when working at the edge, using a challenging material or technique. And through your work, you are making offerings to these gods in order to keep them, and your making, happy.
The one off and ephemeral nature of the necklaces is important to me. I am making them for me, for the joy of making. Offering these feels like an appreciation, and acceptance, of the good and bad in life, the certain and uncertain. Working with these natural materials has made me notice the cycle of things and of life.