I’m half way through my 4-week artist residency at The Admiral’s House on the Isle of Skye, and while I feel like I am doing what I set out to do there’s also a smattering of frustration creeping in.
My preferred craft of the past few years has increasingly been sound and the art of listening as a process, to practice and share through soundwalks, conversations within my networks, and of course, my artworks. When I think back to when I fell in love with radio as a journalism medium all those decades ago (last century), this was probably not a surprising creative shift despite few others around me in Regional NSW being involved in this type of practice. It’s a thrill to be able to experience and enjoy the world in ways that are different to the usual visual smorgasbord on offer. For years, I’ve been able to add layers of sound to my day, revelling in those that impress strong memories, and slowly learning to listen without judgement to those that irritate. I will admit my clutch of guinea fowl sorely tested that last endeavour in recent years. (I rehomed them before leaving for Skye.)
The gradual acquisition of specialist microphones, giving me entry to ‘hidden’ sub-surface worlds, has been a major investment into acoustic biospheres. Like the journalist who gets the big story first, it’s a thrill to hear things for the first time — internal worlds few have heard. It becomes addictive.
Permission
When I’m teaching others about field recording and sound art, I often say that to get the best from this medium, you must slow down. You must be calm and at one with your surrounds. This all starts with just listening. There are times when I’ve felt the need to ask ‘permission’ to record a place. It’s not something I do out loud; it’s a silent, internalised request that comes from slowing your breathing and your heart rate, quietening the mind and body, so that you’re more receptive to what might be transmitted to you. The days I’ve not done this have ended badly, and it seems that is what is happening to me here.
I am frustrated by the quality of the field recordings I’m getting here — noises I know shouldn’t be there are evident in my samples. I haven’t done a lot of field recording in the past two weeks, as it was not the purpose of this residency, but nor have I asked for ‘permission’ for the ones I have done. My head has been full of chatter and thoughts of aching joints, midges, unplanned showers of rain, breathlessness from hill climbing — a general physical discomfort I carry with me most days in this damp, uneven landscape of hills, mosses, bracken, wind, and sea.
An Aboriginal man I ran into on the river at home one day shared his beliefs about being on Country with me: If you don’t feel right — you have a headache, a backache, or a sore leg, leave, and maybe come back another day. You aren’t meant to be there. I don’t come from this land, my ancestors, for at least eight generations that I know of, don’t come from this land…and even if they did, I really should be asking permission to be here. It makes sense to pay your respects to the land, particularly when you don’t know her customs.
While my sound recording efforts have been frustrating, my words are flowing. Writing is becoming more effortless as I’ve given myself the space to think.
Seeking the full experience
The need for a creative insurance policy against the loss of functionality that comes with advancing years has become more pressing of late; for that day when I perhaps can’t walk as far, carry as much kit, or clamber over uneven ground. Even now, some days feel too hard. My eyesight has been questionable for years now and I always have multiple pairs of glasses with me to compensate. My biggest fear though, given the number of my family members with significant hearing loss, is that one day I won’t be able to hear what I can now. I’m sure it’ll happen slowly — a loss of frequency range or my tinnitus getting louder and more insistent in the quiet that I love.
The writing part of my work as a journalist and communications specialist has always been very functional. I know, and I’ve been told many times, I write like a journalist. I’m not sure I’ve had much joy from writing over the 35 years I’ve been writing professionally, yet I’ve had this niggling feeling that one day, writing might be all that’s left to me. I need to reshape this craft that I’ve always had, so it might fulfill the role that sound has become to me. Sounds and words do make a lovely couple, providing room for the imagination to work its magic.
The project I’m working on while in residency, that I’ve been telling people isn’t a project yet, is called The Sonic Language of (Lost) Landscapes. I want to take my time with it — thinking, reading, learning, writing and of course, listening. I’m not sure what the outcome will be, or what shape it will take. My observations to date tell me that even some of the best nature writers don’t include much sound in their descriptions, or if they do, it’s cursory or functional. English can be truly inadequate at times. Some languages describe sound better than others and are more attuned to the natural world. At least that’s been my experience of learning Scottish Gàidhlig for the past seven months. Words like uisge (water/ rain), clach (stone/rock) and craobh (tree) make so much sense to me — sounds contained within names.
While I believe writing about my field recordings and soundscape compositions in a more descriptive, experiential and immersive way, allows more people to connect with these works than is currently the case, ultimately making my work more meaningful, I’m also being selfish about this. One day, words might be all I have left, and I want the full experience.
Addendum
A sample of my writing from a trip into a birch grove at the Braes last week.
Beside the Ollach River, Isle of Skye, 15 August
About a kilometre from the house is a path leading up the mountain overlooking Raasay — the sound and the island. It lays the way for the Ollach River to tumble towards the Braes. The track is one broad hiking boot wide, a narrow, steep path through a moss-clad birch grove, their exposed roots like the veins on thin hands. The ground either side of the chocolate winding line up the hill is spongey — stony outcrops, roots and mud, flanked by banks of moss, are cause for watching where you step as you climb. My breath is loud in my ears before I’m too far in but is soon drowned out by the roar of the river. Constricted on its rush to the bottom, peaty, tannin-stained waters tumble over small falls, bubbling and frothing around boulders. Loud, white noise fills the space between the rocky rise on the other side of the river and the trees, no redeeming or identifiable tones or notes to be heard, just a thick rushing hiss like strong wind. I continue my climb to find a place where I might stand and just listen to the trees. The river’s noise follows me, but it does become quieter the higher I climb. There’s little wind and mid-tones dominate the shade. Looking skyward, it’s a stippled view of pale grey against the underbelly of stilled silver birch leaves — rounded lime greens of various shades splotches with veins of twigs connecting branch to branch, tree to tree. Mosses, lichens, and small colonies of liverwort tumble over each other in the race to win ground on the rocks, bark and any scrap of bare earth on the hillside. It’s a soft, plump, feathery patchwork quilt of greens cloaking all the solid structures giving this place its bones.
Dropping my pack on the moss, I set up to listen. Plunging a probe into the base of a rotted silver birch held upright by layers of moss, I descend into a sonic world of darkness — a watery cave, deep and wet, pulsating waves constantly thrumming. It’s a mossy version of the river’s white noise, but somehow more unearthly. The bones in my feet ache with the effort of standing still for minutes on end on the uneven soft, steep slope, so I move down to a gentle bend in the track. It’s closer to where the river is at its loudest. I’m surprised though that when I put the probe into the base of young bracken, I hear what sounds like the river muffled through a hillside of dark, damp, peaty soil. There are no ticks, clicks, crackles or gurgles here.
****
I’m currently reading:
Skeoch, A. 2023. Deep Listening to Nature. Listening Earth.
Laurie, P. 2020. Native: Life in a Vanishing Landscape. Birlinn Ltd.
MacGill-Eain, S. 2011. An Cuilithionn 1939. Association for Scottish Literary Studies.
Bakker, K. 2022. The Sounds of Life. Princeton University Press.
Lopez, B. 2023. Embrace Fearlessly the Burning World (Essays). Notting Hill Editions.
Thank you to all who have recommended books for this venture. I’m working my way through quite a list that also includes some old favourites.
kvgoldsmithart.com 