“Nature is not a place to visit. It is home,” Gary Snyder
There are two words I find tricky to use when writing about my work—nature and landscape.
Let’s start with nature
The assumptions baked into our language around the natural world make me uneasy. There’s something about it that puts me on edge. And that Gary Snyder quote gets to the heart of it.
We speak of nature as a force, a concept, a destination. We head off to hike, picnic, or otherwise “spend time in nature” for our physical, mental, or spiritual wellbeing. But in that language is an implication: that nature is somewhere else. That it’s separate from us. Plants, animals, insects, weather, water, forests—over there. And us—over here. Sometimes we admire nature, but often we position ourselves in opposition to it.
Judeo-Christian traditions, philosophical frameworks, and other worldviews have shaped this perspective. So have expediency, exploitation, capitalism, and probably a hundred other influences I haven’t accounted for. Some of it is egregious, much of it simply human—survival, discovery, seeking—as well as claiming, consuming, and destroying.
Nature as Other
But this deeply held belief that nature is “other” feels illogical. How did we convince ourselves that we aren’t part of the natural world? Why don’t we see assaults on nature as assaults on ourselves—not metaphorically, but literally?
Yes, we’ve built vast urban centres, lit up the night sky, created technological webs that span the globe—it can feel like we’ve made our own world. But we still live within a system that predates us. We live on Earth, a place we are still learning about. We are not separate from organic life—we are organic life.
The aesthetic dimension
There’s also an aesthetic dimension to this. Nature often implies something beautiful, striking, or pleasing to the senses.
I’ve noticed that animals don’t care about aesthetics. They may be beautiful themselves or create stunning structures (spiderwebs, bowers). But the wish for a harmonious view or pleasing vista is a human concern. A sewage lagoon might support more life than a picturesque meadow. Beauty has nothing to do with ecological value.
Even in the Darkness, 36 × 48″, acrylic & mixed media
Where’s the art?
All of this might sound more like a philosophical or ecological concern than something to do with art. And maybe I sound a little Pollyanna-ish—I just want us all to live in harmony, which from our current starting place seems wildly naïve.
I don’t have any brilliant ideas about how to get there. And I often question the value of making art. Perhaps devoting myself to conservation would be more to the point? But I do feel that offering harmony and wonder in a painting is worth something. Some days it doesn’t feel like enough. Maybe it isn’t.
As for expressing these ideas in my work, the closest I’ve gotten so far is Even in the Darkness. For me it captures a simultaneous sense of darkness, chaos, organization, and optimism. It feels as much like a portrait of humanity as a landscape.
I don’t think it’s an accident that I’ve turned to a visual medium to try to express these ideas and perceptions. It feels more direct. When I’m out there—in the river—I’m beyond language. Everything feels perfectly clear. But when I sit down to write or talk about nature in relation to my work, I get tangled in the words.
Education required
I’m trying to educate myself. I’m interested in how others are thinking and writing about the natural world. It’s not a topic I’ve studied before. I’d like to read Gary Snyder’s The Practice of the Wild. Rebecca Solnit’s “The Limits of Landscape” gave me a few threads to follow. If you have any suggestions, please let me know. I’d love to read something from an indigenous perspective.
I’ve been slow to write this post because my thoughts feel jumbled and still in process. But they likely won’t be clear next month either. It’s a long project. I’ll write about something more fun next time.
Thanks for reading.
photo of a frozen beaver pond in Winter, Lindsay Smail
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