Hinterlands,Baltic
I have always struggled with meditation. The idea of sitting still for even five minutes appeals to me in theory but not in practice, no matter how much I try. So I have been seeking different grounding experiences elsewhere: on a long walk in a forest, away from the noise of the city; in a poetry collection by one of my most beloved authors; in a song that does something to my insides, as if making my internal organs dance; around my friends who I can be myself with, completely and utterly ungrounded.
Last month, I discovered a new kind of grounding at Hinterlands (20 October 2022 - 30 April 2023), a group exhibition at the Baltic Centre for Contemporary Art, a former flour mill by the River Tyne. Curated by Emma Dean, Niomi Fairweather and Katharine Welsh and featuring the work of twelve artists, Hinterlands explored our multifaceted relationship with the wild landscape, both urban and rural, and spanned different mediums and perspectives. It left me with the feeling I seemed to have been craving the most, not expecting to find it in a gallery.
As soon as I entered the space, I was under a powerful magic spell. I was immediately drawn to the artwork that was supposed to be the last one in the show, bending the rules and moving anti-clockwise, somewhat embodying the words of T.S. Elliot that “what we call the beginning is often the end.” And vice versa. Sabina Sallis, an artist from Newcastle Upon Tyne who deals with the aesthetics of sustainability, relocated me to a nature ritual in her mixed media installation, Apparatus for Resurgence in Trophallaxis: Greetings from the Mother of Herbs (2019-ongoing).
The intricately detailed sketches on the walls surrounded the igloo-esque construction built with copper, straw, herbs and thread that housed essential oils, knitting yarn and other organic materials, making me think that I had stumbled upon a sacred space. As I breathed in the scents and studied the symbols and artefacts, I wondered if the ritual would happen again. Would I be invited? Would the Mother of Herbs return? Would She teach me to listen to the herbs? The mystery and magic of Sallis's work left a lasting impression on me.
Sabina Sallis. Apparatus for Resurgence in Trophllaxis: Greetings from the Mother of Herbs, 2019 – ongoing.
Moving on to another section of the exhibition, I found myself in a domestic space that felt equally intimate but in a different way. Sheree Angela Matthews' 2022 installation, The Country Journal of a Blackwoman (Northumberland), presented enlarged diary entries and journal pages on the walls, inviting me to read through the personal musings of the artist of Afro-Caribbean descent who explores the natural world, self-image, sexuality and heritage. I always lose it to the power of words, more so when it is applied in visual art; it wins me over straight away. Yet, if anything, I find it comforting to and compliantly let it do so, spending more time with it, not just swallowing but chewing the words (is that what mindful eating is?).
These particular texts dealt with themes of identity, belonging and the intersection of personal and political realms, resonating deeply with my reflections that have been living in my head rent-free, for lack of a better word. In particular, "Where do I belong if not within my body?" struck a chord as I have grappled with this question in recent years, eventually imprinting the word ‘home’ on my left arm in the hope that it would finally resolve the question. Reading through the entries, listening to the soundscapes, and examining the photographs and other personal memorabilia, I felt trusted and honoured to be let into Matthew's inner world. Almost as if we were having a private conversation. I thought about her definition of a human as a living palimpsest, carrying our experiences and memories in our bodies - like different layers of a landscape.
Sheree Angela Matthews, The Country Journal of a Blackwoman (Northumberland), 2022.
A moving image installation by Dawn Felicia Knox, an artist and curator who works across mediums and in collaboration with scientists and academics, had me sit with my thoughts and reflections for a little longer, almost isolating me from other visitors - in the best way possible. The Felling (2012-2022) draped me in the photographs and archival images of Felling Colliery, tracing its history from 320 million years ago, when it was a swamp, to when it served as a working mine during the industrial revolution - and suffered four explosion disasters, killing most of the miners who worked there - to its current identity as a contaminated, abandoned site.
Growing up, I spent my summers exploring this kind of deserted land, finding some unthreatened peace there that I could indulge in, making up stories about their past lives, not realising they might have been threatening. And not just to the people.
Getting to know the bracken fern, white poplar, willow, annual honesty, fireweed and mugwort - the plants that “work together to undo the toxic residue of industrialisation” - and adjusting my breath to the visceral soundscape by Anastasia Clarke, I lived with the piece for twenty-seven minutes of its running time, I had to force myself to start moving gently, my upper and then my lower body, leaving my childhood self behind.
Dawn Felicia Knox with Anastasia Clarke. The Felling, 2022.
With my vision of the space as a haven strengthening, I realised it was rare for me to stick through the whole duration of video work, yet, I ended up doing so again with Fieldworking (2020) by Laura Harrington. The piece took me to a communal setting, seating me in a campsite around a fire. Instead of looking at the fire, however, I was looking at a group of six artists, filmmakers and ecologists who, in tune with the title, conducted fieldwork in an isolated location on the former site of a scientific field station over five days (fieldwork and the relations between humans and landscape is the focus of Harrington's practice).
I was hypnotised by the footage that I can only describe as meditative - extending the metaphor - watching them move across the landscapes, as if in slow motion, to the soundscapes I would previously find on my numerous meditation apps that sleep in my well-being folder. During a few blacked-out moments, it sounded like the Earth breathing, picked up by a microphone buried deeply in the bog. Was that her voice I was hearing? What was She saying? Was She speaking to the Mother of Herbs on the other side of the gallery space, knowing we do not understand the language? It was also hard not to think that it could be my group of friends in high-visibility waterproofs and hiking shoes recorded on camera on a trip away, yet the focus here, again, was not on people; it was on the water, the wind and the grassy turf that they were in a total alignment with. They were learning the Earth’s language, and I craved to do the same.
Laura Harrington. Fieldworking, 2020.
After a few hours, I left the space with a new-found sense of connection to the notion of a landscape. Familiarising myself with many other fascinating artists, such as Alexandra Hughes, Michele Allen, Uma Breakdown, Jo Coupe, Emily Hesse, Mani Kambo and Anne Vibeke Mou, throughout this time, I lived in a space for reflection, contemplation and healing that stayed with me since; in my mind and in my body.
http://balticplus.uk/hinterlands-e801/