Listening In: making, recording, walking in Dukes Wood

Microphones allow privileged auditory access. With the use of contact microphones, audio vibrations can be detected through solid materials and through water (if waterproofed). These offer an experience akin to ‘auscultation’ since the microphones need to be placed in direct contact with a surface and resemble a stethoscope.

Michael Gallagher writes about their use in allowing access to the discrete or seemingly inaudible: “Contact mics are good in situations where you think there is sound happening, but you can’t hear it well for whatever reason. For example, I once went out to record at a wind farm. The wind was so strong that very little else could be heard. I tried using an ordinary mic, but it was just picking up wind noise and a faint swish from the turbine blades. However, when I put my ear to the side of a turbine, I could hear all kinds of other sounds going on inside. I attached contact mics to the side of the turbine and was able to make a much more interesting recording.” *

It is arguably a means that prompts experimentation – results can be surprising and unpredictable. Previously I have used them to listen to the sounds of limpets feeding, ice blocks melting and grasses rustling. During a workshop this Saturday afternoon at Dukes Wood (the closing weekend for the project), participants will have an opportunity to make and use a very simple contact microphone. Using the walk as a line of enquiry we will go hunting for sounds in a wander through and around the woods with Alison Lloyd.  


Microphone making starts at 2pm on Saturday September 28th.  The walk will depart from outside the Duke’s Wood Oil Museum at around 4pm and will return around 5.30- 6pm, whatever the weather! Please bring sensible footwear, warm clothes, snacks and drinks. (Hot drinks available from the Museum upon return). Please note the walk is open to non-workshop participants.

To book a place and for further information: see



By Louise K. Wilson

Alison Lloyd – I Cannot See the Summit from Here



I cannot see the summit from here

Here being Dukes Wood, Nottinghamshire.




Binnein Beag

contours of a map

for Aonach Beag


at 1234 metres

Bearings taken to preferred ways


Kinks in the contours

Kindliness between two walkers

just pick an area

kinks in the lives


towards a day

today there was no need to get anywhere

tired was my position

terrified was how I felt

tried to get to the summit



The cleanest description of my tools for Navigation …

In a transparent plastic holder there is one permanent marker pen with a green lid.  The lid is about a third of the pen’s size.  The green of the lid tells me that the pen’s ink is green.

How close the green ink colour is to the lid I do not know because I haven’t used the pen to make a mark.

The pen with the blue top has been taken out of the transparent plastic holder and is lying next to this container.  There is a pencil.

Next to the plastic container is a piece of unlined paper with one torn edge.  On the paper is some writing in blue ink.  The blue ink from the pen with the blue top.

Lying below the three lines of blue inked text is an instrument that is also made from the same transparent plastic.

Red cord is tied or rather looped through a hole in the plastic instrument.  There is a circular dial that I know I can twist.  Inside the dial is a white and red arrow.  The red arrow points North.  And points down towards me.











By Alison Lloyd

Aaron Juneau – Liquid Museology


Roughly at the centre of the site, where Duke’s Wood meets its neighbouring Pudding Poke Wood, stands an old portacabin structure which, for 20 years, has been home to the Duke’s Wood Oil Museum. Lovingly curated by ex-oilmen Kevin Topham and John Lukehurst, the museum holds a remarkably disparate array of memorabilia tracing 5 decades of service to the oil industry and a jumbled history of oil production at Eakring Oil Fields and Duke’s Wood itself. Set uneasily alongside this profusion of photographs, newspaper cuttings, official documents and oil-related objects are occasional images of flora and fauna, birds and animals. These examples of natural inhabitants of the wood appear to have been surreptitiously pinned to the walls by the Wildlife Trust in a failed attempt to redress the balance between heavy industry and natural ecology. In one case a kind of absurd tableau is created where a vitrine encasing two taxidermied badgers shares space with an old oil drum and giant prehistoric-looking drill heads, like the disembodied mouths of huge mechanical moles.


The ‘Duke’s Wood Oil Museum’ and ‘Wildlife interpretative Centre’, as it is named on two separate signs nailed to the front of the building, is a space of on-going playful friction. It is symptomatic of the seeming opposition that characterises the site and the sometimes-uneasy relationship between the oil industry veterans and the Wildlife Trust, to which the woods now belong. This light-hearted mutual antipathy extends to the displays within the museum, where the battle for space is played out in a condensed and concentrated form. This space, in all it’s schizophrenic charm and disorganised eccentricity, has acted as the base for our artists in residence and has been one of the primary resources for aiding the research and development of their ideas.

Museum 2

The structure uses an old geological study laboratory that was originally sited in at least three separate locations around the country before reaching its final resting place at Duke’s Wood. More typically used for studying the composition of strata sampled from below the ground, the layers of which represent millions of years of history, the building now houses a collection of images and objects that comprehensively document and archive the relatively recent history of the wood from the point of its most significant human intervention at the beginning of the Second World War. The museum gives a kaleidoscopic view of history, unashamedly anachronistic in its display. It is a chaotic montage of objects and images in which temporality elapses making way for a new kind of radical museology where past, present and future converge.

Oil 3

In his mythic fiction Offshore Drilling Rig Graham Harman describes his fanciful musings whilst marooned on a rig off the South-East coast of America, ‘a textbook example of a tension-leg platform, in the storied Magnolia field at the edge of the so-called Titan Mini-Basin.’ With fictitious friend and fellow philosopher China Mieville, Harman reflects on how ‘oilmen expelled their souls through tubes toward the core of the earth, siphoning the remains of ancient ferns and reptiles in return.’

I shall quote quite a lengthy section of the work here as Harman’s own philosophic prose should speak for itself:

‘We find ourselves on an offshore oil rig, guests of an industry on which all are dependent, yet which many thinking people view with disdain[…]

Drilling into the earth’s crust far beneath the sea, it retrieves ancient materials from millions of years in the past. It draws them up to the surface of everyday life, where they are used as energy for the most prosaic modern actions. The heating of a banal chain restaurant, like our stupefied movements from home to office, is possible only through combusting the remains of monstrous plants and animals that would destroy us in any personal encounter. Consider the strange carnivorous flowers, giant reptiles, and scurrying mammalian ancestors that were contemporaries of the oil now drawn from this platform.

Wildlife Trust 1

Now, imagine that instead of merely siphoning fuel for modern activities, these oil rigs had the power to draw full-blown ancient entities from the ground. Actual past species would be sucked from the earth, and we will assume that they come not only from the Jurassic and neighbouring periods, but even from more recent human history[…]

It should not be imagined that the rig is capable of summoning all past, present, and future things in their own right. Instead, it draws forth images of them.’

Oil 1

Appropriated to articulate, by means of a mythic approach, his increasingly popular OOO (object oriented ontology), the oil rig analogy for Harman merely serves as a suitable model with which to consider the notion of an ‘occasionalist polytheism’, for, ‘the known ability of oil rigs to siphon entities from distant times and spaces’ functions as a particularly blasphemous secular alternative to an Occasionalist God. Instead of any singular religious deity mediating all interactions in the cosmos, an occasionalist polytheism would suggest an equality, not only between oil rigs but between all objects, to mutually affect and interact with one another. In Harman’s words,

‘For if we abandon the occasionalist God in favour of an oil rig, and then abandon a single all-powerful rig in favour of a vast legion of equipotent divine platforms, why stop there? Why not grant all objects the power to act as oil rigs, each draining phantasmal energy from all of the others? We can literally imagine all rabbits, monkeys, electrons, acids, and freight trains as equipped with pipes and tubing of their own. All real objects of every size now have the power to interact with all other things, at the price of turning them into images. The entire cosmos is in fact a dystopia filled with trillions of miniature deities, each of them a platform in a hurricane-infested gulf.’

Oil 2

Accepting all obvious deviations and digressions here I would like to adopt a similarly mythic approach to thinking about the Oil Museum, it’s contents, and the remaining nodding donkeys that inhabit the clearings in the surrounding wood where it is sited. Let us imagine for a moment, akin to Harman’s off-shore oil rigs, each one drawing up a multiplicity of images in substitute for their usual crude oil, that the nodding donkeys at Duke’s Wood served the very same purpose and pumped up images from the ground below. Yet, with no independent infrastructure like the oil rigs large platforms, the donkeys send their yield direct to the museum where it is diligently arranged, with an order familiar only to the collections keepers and custodians. Such is the volume of material transmitted to the museum, that the task of organising it quickly becomes insurmountable. And so, in spite of their best efforts the displays take on a wild, cluttered disparity. What is settled for as sense or logical order for our curators would appear completely arbitrary to the untrained eye.

Thus a kind of liquid museology takes shape where the lines between fact and fiction, narrative truth and tale, historical artifact and out of place artifice, blur and merge together in a continuous temporal flow.

Jonathan P. Watts and William Raban – An Interview

William Raban, Thames Film, 1986 copy

William Raban, Thames Film, 1986

Thames Film was the first William Raban film I saw. It was a teenage viewing: the film’s thematic richness – its social, political and historical complexity – passed me by, but distinct feelings lingered. Thames Film spooked me. Blurs on old photographs, staccato photos that contrast with the moving images’ flow of life, revealed the ghosts of wondering river-side souls. Vibrant archival scenes of commerce – carefully deployed nostalgia – cut with crumbling industry evoked powerful sensations of absence. Everything felt strange: amid the primeval din of unknown industries and the river’s arcane flow, the human diminished. All presided over by Bruegel’s nightmarish The Triumph of Death. It is a film that urges repeat viewing, not only to appreciate the layered relations between image, sound and spoken word, but because one of its principle themes, which it entirely embodies, is magnitudes of time.

Thames Film was made more than two decades into Raban’s career, which had included structural landscape film, expanded cinema and installation. Later he would make From 60 Degrees North for television. From 1972-6 Raban ran the London Filmmakers Co-operative workshop. His pioneering films of the ‘70s developed in a climate of intense experimentation and debate about the materiality of film itself. Thames Film incorporates elements of this debate into the single-screen poetic documentary. Movement never ceases in Thames Film. Much is shot looking from the perspective of the river, from a boat that we hear but do not see. The movement of the boat – entirely contingent upon the river – determines the movement of the camera. When I interviewed Raban over email last year I began by asking about what it was that attracted him to this ‘phantom ride’ technique.

Raban 1

William Raban, A13, 1994

William Raban: I like your term ‘phantom ride’. In fact there is one shot in Thames Film when filming with the sun behind me you can see the projection of the boat’s mast onto the banks of the river. In Thames Film I wanted to film from the point of view of the river and so filming from a small boat drifting on the tide seemed the obvious way to do it. I also had to make a decision about which side of the boat to film from. This needed to be consistent all the way through the film and I decided to film from starboard for two reasons. The rule of the sea demand that boats on the river pass each other port to port and small boats have to keep to the ‘the right’ which put the nearest bank of the river on the starboard side of the boat. The second reason was that I liked the idea of the scanning direction going from right to left which is the opposite direction to the way we read. It was almost a deliberate anti-literary tactic allowing for the fact that I wanted the audience to ‘read’ the film visually and not literally.

I have never mounted the camera to the dashboard of the car. In Fergus Walking (1978) I filmed looking sideways across the passenger seat from the driver’s position. More recently (A13, ISLAND RACE, Beating the Bridges, MM, Civil Disobedience, etc.) I mounted the camera on the roof of the car. I have found this produces smooth tracking shots and frequently I have combined shooting in time-lapse or at very low camera speeds which has the effect of speeding up the apparent movement. Sometimes this produces an almost dream-like quality of seemingly swooping through a landscape

JPW: You seem to be drawn to the sea, ports, and rivers. What fascination do these hold for you? Often in your films we arrive at the sea (the edge) from London (the centre).

WR: I love filming the sea and going back to Thames Film I liked the idea that with the camera fixed to the boat, the best way to control panning movements was by steering the boat. Quite literally, filming from a boat on the water creates the perfect ‘fluid head’. Perhaps the film that most develops the idea of filming from boats is From 60 Degrees North 1991, Commissioned by Channel 4, it tells the story of what happened to the Spanish survivors of the 1588 Armada and their grueling journeys back to Spain.

Filming the sea presents a particular cinematographic challenge and in my opinion there are not very many films that do this successfully. The Cruel Sea is one good example. I have owned a boat from 1982 – 2011 and I have always looked on the boat as a portable studio and adapted it to make it easy to film from.

London is where it is because of its proximity to the sea and from the late 18 up to the turn of the 20 century it was regarded as “the greatest waterway in the word’’ which in terms of the trade it carried, it undeniably was. Ports are fascinating because they are usually great cosmopolitan places. They are places of arrival and departure: always in flux.

The sea and navigating on the sea has always fascinated me partly because the sea might be regarded as the last great wilderness. Making passage in a boat, the bow wave closes up behind you leaving no trace of you having been there. On the land it is different because over time, our collective traces form visible tracks and footpaths.

To some extent, my fascination for being on the sea has lessened. Before the days of GPS it was really exciting making the voyage from England across the Bay of Biscay to Spain. It is about 500 miles. Once the shore drops out of sight astern, you are never quite sure of exactly where you are. I navigate by dead reckoning and plot the hourly position on the chart though spurious currents and leeway can mean that over many hours I may in fact be somewhere different from where I think I am. Closing the coast at the end of the voyage is always exciting because I have to reconcile the features in the landscape with the detail on the chart and there are additional clues offered up by the depth contours on the sea bottom. People have navigated this way for millennia. Now GPS means that a navigator knows exactly where they are at any time on the voyage and for me, this has taken a lot of the ‘magic’ of passage-making. The other thing that has changed in the last 20 years is the increased pollution of the sea. Even 300 miles offshore I meet with floating bits of plastic, bottles, fishermen’s debris and all kinds of flotsam.

Raban 2

William Raban, MM, 2002

JPW: It seems an abiding interest for you is in encouraging an active viewer. In early work this was by making self-reflexive film, where the means of production is an essential part of the viewing experience. How is this played out in your films after the mid-80s which use a more conventional single view-point perspective and less the performance of presenting film familiar to expanded cinema? How do formalist concerns persist in your work today?

WR: Expanded cinema is only one means of pursuing active spectatorship. Incidentally, I don’t like ‘self-reflexive’ because it is a tautology (‘self’ is present already in the term reflexive). I think that having started out making films that might be broadly defined as structural, this informs all subsequent practice. Certainly it is evident in About Now MMX (2010). I have only made one television commission (From 60 Degrees North) and having made it, I decided that wasn’t the way I wanted to go. Channel 4 bought and showed Thames Film and I have made 3 other joint commissions with a broadcaster and The Arts Council.

JPW: I suppose this leads on to another question about preferred places for your films to be seen – as installation in a gallery or theatre?

WR: I much prefer to show my work in cinemas for two reasons. First, they are designed for showing films so the audience experience is generally much better than showing film in improvised spaces. Secondly, I think that there is a transgressive dimension to my work. Art gallery audiences tend to expect to be shocked by work on show in galleries, whereas cinema audiences (for the most part) expect to be entertained. When I show my work in a film theatre, I think the audience are able to reflect upon the inherent conservatism of cinema as an institution and thus it brings out the transgressive aspect in my films.

On the other hand, the question of where to show work is largely a pragmatic one and invariably I do a lot of shows in galleries and museums. I have a couple of works on show at the Helsinki Photo Biennial and they have done a great job in showing the work HD on a large screen in a properly blacked out space. I am also showing The Houseless Shadow in a mini-cinema within the Dickens and London exhibition at the Museum of London. This has also worked out well but it means that the sound on my film creates the soundtrack for the whole exhibition (as noted by several reviewers) because it spills out from the viewing space.

JPW: For many years sound recordist David Cunningham has designed sound for your films. Sound in your films has a remarkable degree of intention and autonomy.  How would you describe your attitude to sound?

WR: Of course films can be silent as some of my early films are but I do like to work with sound. Richard Guy did the sound for Thames Film and Alan Lawrence did the sound for Sundial and A13. I usually do the original sound recordings myself and it is the sound post-production where the main collaboration takes place. I have worked with David Cunningham since he did the sound for Island Race (1996) and again, I usually make most of the initial sound recordings which David then develops into finished sound scores for the films. I rarely work with sync sound. I like to get my shots mute so I can focus entirely on the picture and then if I need sound from the location I will record it either before or after getting the shot. That way I can give my full attention to the sound. I think that the soundtrack has the potential to both work with and against the picture. I see it as having 2 tracks (picture and sound) in parallel and quite often I like to play with the idea of the soundtrack doing something quite different to picture. Chris Marker does this very successfully in Level Five. In general I work in an anti-illustrative way so I don’t necessarily want spot effects in the film. Also, I quite like to let the sound cross the picture cuts.

JPW: How do you reconcile beauty and politics? What I mean by this is a tendency in the tradition of the picturesque to occlude politics, issues of land ownership, for example.

Raban 3

William Raban, Thames Barrier, 1977

WR: I am thinking about this at the moment. I am starting to think that I am not really interested in aesthetics and never have been. The way my films look seems to be determined more by the necessities and conditions of their construction rather than by going out of my way to make beautiful images. I am starting to think that this has more to do with ethics than aesthetics – almost in the way that Aristotle uses the term ‘kalon’ which includes ethical dimensions within aesthetic understanding. I wonder, whether in future, people might look back on process-based art of the 70s (of which structural film forms a part) and see this as an attempt to recover the original meaning of ethics that used to pertain to aesthetics? I need to think about this because it is not entirely clear to me.

When I make a new work, the thing I find myself striving for is to make an object of both truth and beauty. But of course truth is beauty so maybe the sole object should be to make an object of truth?

The notion of the ‘picturesque’ suggests landscape to me, especially when you consider ‘issues of land ownership’. I see many of my films as ‘political’ but this acknowledges the pertinent observation by Jean-Luc Godard ‘The problem is not to make political films, but to make films politically.’ I digress from landscape. I used to be irritated by the generic term ‘landscape film’. I was suspicious of where people were coming from who used it. Given that there is an accepted tradition of English landscape painting, I thought it was an attempt to legitimate film as a fine art practice. Partly with that in mind, I started making urban landscape films with Moonshine (1975) and Autumn Scenes (1978) and of course, it includes my more recent London films as well. I have always seen LS Lowry’s paintings of the industrial northeast as landscape paintings and I think there is work to be done to reclaim the term ‘landscape’ to include the city as well as so-called natural landscapes.

JPW: I would like to ask you about ideas of Englishness in your work. You play with particular motifs, even cliches, for example, in Continental Drift we see the white cliffs of Dover. Some of your films take us to France, which seems a conscious attempt to raise the question of Britain’s island identity and relationship to the continent. The BNP in Island Race. Whenever I see or hear the white cliffs of Dover I cannot but help think of the second generation British Indian poet Daljit Nagra’s Look We Have Coming to Dover! which usefully corrupts this English motif. What does Englishness mean to you? What is it to be an English subject?

WR: I am fascinated by the idea of Englishness. England has radically changed since I was a child in the 1950s. I was thinking about this when I made Island Race and reading demographic projections. I was struck by one prediction that intimated that by 2030, the dominant faith in the UK would be muslim. Obviously, Englishness is an idea that is constantly changing and one of the motivations behind making Island Race was to see whether the microcosmic view of life on the streets of Tower Hamlets would offer up any clues as to a wider sense of English national identity in the late 90s.

As a child, I hated all things Victorian. It seemed to be an epoch that represented all the worst aspects of English provincialism. I never read a Dickens novel until about 3 years ago, partly because Dickens epitomized Victorianism. I was more interested in Bill Haley and Elvis Presley that seemed to be beckoning a new era of the modern. The Georgian period seemed cool, maybe because it was sufficiently in the past. I met people in the 50s

Who had lived part of their lives through the Victorian period so maybe that was why it was distasteful to me? There is an irony that my latest film The Houseless Shadow is based on The Night Walks essay by Charles Dickens! Perhaps that is because there is now sufficient distance – there are now no survivors born of the Victorian age.

I relish the fact that England has now become a multicultural country. I certainly have no regrets or sense of loss about the changing face of England.

JPW: Although ostensibly about the Millennium Dome, your film MM develops into a terrifying surrealist sci-fi that culminates in London being destroyed. This narrative is achieved with sound and moving image. How do you use metaphor? I found Thames Film similarly terrifying. The scale of things, the other-worldliness of sound – the river is a repository of dead bodies, old memories and loss. Perhaps this is the sublime? Or something occultish?

WR: I love that description “MM develops into a terrifying surrealist sci-fi that culminates in London being destroyed.” That is what I wanted to portray but I didn’t realize it was obvious. I think metaphor is dangerous but I guess I do use it, or if not metaphor, at least symbolic imagery. I think that the Canary Wharf Tower has this quality in the Under the Tower trilogy, as does the dome in MM. I am glad you had the same feeling in Thames Film. There I think it is Brueghel’s Triumph of Death painting which is a recurring motif. I don’t find the painting morbid because it has a deep sense of humour concerned with the futility of fighting death. Chaucer’s The Pardoner’s Tale does something similar and in a modern context I found the declaration of the War on Terror by Bush Blair and Aznar to be doing exactly the same. It is difficult to comment but I suspect this has more to do with the sublime than the occult.

JPW: Do you consider yourself an artist filmmaker or feature filmmaker? Is it a useful distinction?

WR: Like the whole business of genre, these terms are slippery. I hate being referred to as ‘avant-garde’ because that refers to artistic practice in the 1920s and shouldn’t (in my view) be used as a contemporary description. Experimental is difficult too, because there are mainstream filmmakers like Kubrick who could justifiably be called experimental. Artist filmmaker is the least problematic. When I started with the London Filmmakers Co-op none of us called ourselves ‘artists’ filmmakers was the term we used. Feature filmmaker implies making films longer than 60 minutes and since I have only made two of those Black and Silver (1981) and Thames Film (1986)) it doesn’t describe my practice. In answer to your question, I think we need to come up with a new term. ‘Independent filmmaker’ worked in the 1970s but ‘cultural filmmaker’ (2000) sounds a little pretentious.

JPW: Who influences your work – be it other filmmakers, visual art or literature?

WR: In terms of film, I really admire Dziga Vertov, Kubrick, Godard, Michael Snow and Roy Andersson. Visual Art – of the English artists, Mark Boyle and John Latham are up there with the greats; Mark Rothko and Morris Louis are supreme champions in America. Literature is a bit more difficult, but I would say Conrad, TS Eliot, and maybe Dickens. (though I am a late convert).

JPW: You have used film consistently throughout your career. Have you used video? Is it possible that different camera equipment puts you at degrees of proximity or distance to the landscape?

WR: It is fair to say that all my work up to now has been on film – either 16 or 35. The Houseless Shadow is my first all digital production though I have occasionally used video for documentation purposes. It seems silly to mourn the passing of film. Now that the film labs have closed down it has become virtually impossible to work analogue now. I love the slow working speed of film and the way in which because it so expensive, it makes me deliberate on what shots to get and how long to hold each one for. I love cutting on a Steenbeck because it is slow. Cutting 3 or 4 shots a day into a film is good going. Working digitally with Final Cut Pro it is almost too fast. I like to work with a material that is close to my thinking speed and film feels right for that.

Having just worked with digital it does have obvious advantages. It was brilliant for shooting low available light in nightime London. It is obviously much cheaper than film.

The results are pretty much immediate but then I liked the whole process of the latent image that had to go to a lab to get developed and printed. Realistically, it is doubtful I will have another opportunity to make a film so digital definitely seems the way to go. To answer your question, I guess that because the camera is lighter, smaller and quieter, digital is less intrusive and thus allows me to get closer to my subject. On the loss side, I don’t have the same choice of lenses. I always liked to shoot with prime lenses which meant that before going out, I would have to consider the perspective of the shot. With digital, I use a zoom lens and though I don’t zoom in the shooting, I use it as a variable focal length lens.

Jonathan P. Watts – Fossil Culture

On Wednesday 24th July Writer Jonathan P. Watts presented the following text to introduce the first of the Duke’s Wood Project film series at Nottingham Contemporary. 

‘Exploring the cultural effects of oil and coal, three moving image works draw from the remembered sounds of a working mine (Mikhail Karikis / Uriel Orlow, Sounds from Beneath. 2010/12mins), the effects of a contemporary oil shipwreck (H.C. Morstang, Certain Degrees Below. 2007. 5mins) and the sublime architecture of industry faced with obsolescence (Emily Richardson, Petrolia. 2005. 21mins).’
 The three films were followed by a conversation between Emily Richardson and writer Jonathan P. Watts (Ordinary Culture).
Fossil Culture
When Ordinary Culture invited me to put together a programme of moving image works, around six months ago, I was reading a book by the writer Harriet Atkinson on The Festival of Britain called The Festival of Britain: A Land And Its People. In 1951, the Festival of Britain gathered the best in modern architecture, art and design on the Southbank, London in a concerted effort to reconstruct a nation displaced and truamatised by the Second World War. It offered those who attended a good time, but also a sense of an ending and a beginning – a vision of how a future Britain as a model democracy could be made.
At the Festival of Britain was an exhibition pavilion called Origins of the Land. Its entrance was designed to look like a cave – passing the threshold was to travel backwards through time into an underground mineral realm. Greeting the viewer was Graham Sutherland’s oil mural The Origins of the Land (1950-1). This painting represents primeval Britain – sea life and pterodactyls – as abstracted shapes. Accompanying this were animations recounting the 70 million year story of Britain’s geological formation. At the centre of the pavilion was a column of artificial rock concealing a 16mm projector showing films on a loop which projected onto a map. Titles included Fossils Which Come to Life, Land Fauna and Reptiles, Earth in Labour and Landscape Scenes. An accompanying pavilion called Minerals of the Island displayed an exhibition of coal-mining methods from prehistoric times to the present. It showed how developing mining technology pierced through the stratified layers of earth, rock and minerals in ever more effective ways.


For Fossil Culture I fantasied about fabricating a column of rock, concealing a projector inside it and showing the Festival of Britain films in their original, unconventional way. Fantasies aside, the Festival of Britain and this period of history seemed an appropriate way to frame Fossil Culture for a few reasons. In these pavilions nationhood were tied to mineral wealth and production. Inherent in this was an extremely poignant paradox: while national identity was tied to Britain’s geological foundations of landscape – what could be more solid – this foundation was being pierced, extracted and destroyed for the creation of wealth by increasingly sophisticated technology. Paradoxically, what sustained national identity, while promoting growth, also, potentially, contained the seeds of its destruction. Today nationalism has a chequered reputation. But landscape, particularly rural landscape, continues to be evoked as what is at stake with environmentally destructive extraction of fossil fuels – take, for instance, fracking, the practice of drilling into rock to release gas and oil from shale rock.

Fossil fuels, in one form or another, have been used for thousands of years. Their use accelerated during the Industrial Revolution, and reached something comparable to today’s level of consumption during modernity. Modernity was the age of the machine, and the machine needed oiling. Modernity, we might add, was also the age of the movie camera. The first and second world wars, which some historians have tried to account for as the consequence of modernity’s anxious acceleration, were oil-heavy too. Duke’s Wood began its first year of production in 1941, two years into the Second World War, and increased extraction as the war continued into the middle of the decade. (The first environmentally catastrophic oil spill occurred off the east coast of America in 1942 when a transporter ship was sunk by a German U Boat.)

But this programme is not just about oil. The umbrella term fossil fuels includes coal. Fossil Culture, the title of this programme, has an intended double meaning. According to Raymond Williams the Latin root of culture, colere, means to inhabit, cultivate, protect, honour with worship. On the one hand I want to evoke the non-human formation of fossil fuels by organisms deposited millions of years ago. And on the other evoke human culture as it has been sustained by fossil fuels in a comparatively minuscule time span.

Obviously much has changed in the intervening years between mid-century Britain and today. Certainly growing environmental awareness has raised consciousness about the long term consequences of burning non-renewable fuel, but before that communities cultivated around oil and particularly coal have been decimated and disenfranchised. For Fossil Culture, rather than show post-war Festival of Britain films, which project a brighter future underwritten by fossil fuels, I resolved to show three contemporary takes on the situation, each with their own contemporary senses of anxiety, beguilement, ambiguity and longing.

Heidi C. Morstang’s Certain Degrees Below (2007) is set off Western coast of Norway where the oil tanker Server was shipwrecked by a storm in January 2007. Three hundred and seventy tons of oil and diesel seeped into the sea and quickly spread along the coast, affecting bird reservoirs on the island of Herdla. Certain Degrees Below is an inditement, Morstang writes, not only of ecological vulnerability, but of those who are responsible.


Mikhail Karikis and Uriel Orlow’s film Sounds from Beneath (2010-11) is structured around a choral piece performed by the Snowdown Colliery Male Voice Choir. The men, in collaboration with Karikis, devised the piece entirely of remembered subterranean sounds of a working coal mine. Subsequently, Karikis invited the artist Uriel Orlow to collaborate on the moving image work, which depicts the choir performing the piece – underground explosions, alarms and pickaxing – on a closed colliery in the South East of England.


Emily Richardson’s film Petrolia (2005) takes its name from a redundant oil drilling platform in the Cromarty Firth, Scotland. Using time lapse and long exposure techniques, she explores the sublime, strangely autonomous architecture of an industry faced with obsolescence – Scottish oil and gas supplies are predicted to run dry in the next forty years.

By Jonathan P. Watts

Louise K. Wilson – Camouflaged

Since the last posting, I have made several more trips to Dukes Wood. The residency has been spread over repeated visits but a few consecutive days in mid June allowed concentrated time to make recordings, walk, observe, take photographs and read. When the skies opened – as they did with vigour – I sat in my car or in the Museum and read the better part of the history of Dukes Wood during the Second World War (1). It is an engaging story but seems so intangible now, especially the tight layer of secrecy under which the oil drilling first took place in this rural place:

The small well pumps that British civilians had so aptly nicknamed nodding donkeys and other field equipment, including tank cars and trucks, continued to be protected from air raids of the enemy by fresh coats of green paint that blended with the green of spring and summer pastures of the English countryside. The heavy foliage of the great oaks, beeches, and yews formed a natural camouflage so that the secret operations were not noticeable to a pilot who did not know that a producing oil field actually lay hidden below the big trees of Sherwood Forest. (p187)

It was extraordinary to me how much ground cover had grown up in the last few weeks. In places, the Wood is unrecognisable as smaller discrete ‘landmarks’ are obscured. Though hardly large, it is still surprisingly easy to lose bearings. The main task has required treading a now familiar track in order to open the remaining uncapped well. This has become Herculean – it has resisted opening on several occasions, but this has now been achieved to all intents and purposes (with the gallant help of Kevin and John from the Duke’s Wood Oil Museum). The exact location can’t be disclosed but it is somewhere on the ground beneath the canopy visible in this Google Maps screen grab (below).

Google Map


During an opportune conversation with some folks from the Nottinghamshire Wildlife Trust (camped outside the Museum to have their sandwiches one lunchtime), I met Michael Walker (Living Landscape Monitoring Officer) who opened up the possibility of listening in to bat sounds at Duke’s. He subsequently sent an email with example files of the surprisingly melodic calls of pipistrelles (they ‘sing’ in summer apparently – with 3 or 5 notes in a trill). He explained the differences in bat detection devices – my simple heterodyne ‘batbox’ in relation to his more sophisticated device that works on the principle of time expansion – recording all frequencies simultaneously. I look forward to an imminent walk after sunset to record these enigmatic mammals – to listen to what ordinarily can’t be heard.

Walking along the track up to the Museum, I stop to look into a man-made pond.  Looking closer, it is teeming with tadpoles (Sam later told me his father witnessed the cacophonous mating frenzy weeks earlier). I put some hydrophones down into the water to record their activity (both my professional Dolphinear hydrophones and later, a rough and ready homemade contact mic). It is an entrancing audible world to listen in to: a beautiful, humorous sound of manic and rhythmic scratchings. I have been back since – to see how much the passing of time (just a few weeks) and the increased growth of these creatures (I spotted one juvenile frog) might affect this sound. The year moves on.



(1) From The Secret of Sherwood Forest: Oil Production in England During World War II by Guy H. Woodward and Grace Steel Woodward (1973).


By Louise K. Wilson

Duke’s Wood Project – Key dates and events


Aug 31 – Sept 29 (Public opening events Aug 31 & Sept 1)

Duke’s Wood Project is an exhibition within a nature reserve which was formerly the UK’s first on-shore oil field featuring 7 new artworks by artists; Folke Koebberling & Martin Kaltwasser, Alec Finlay, Anne-Mie Melis, Stephen Turner, Institute for Boundary Interaction (I.B.I), Louise K. Wilson and Dan Robinson. It also features special events by artists Jo Dacombe and Alison Lloyd.

About Ordinary Culture

We are delighted to introduce our new initiative Ordinary Culture and our inaugural curatorial venture Duke’s Wood Project. Ordinary Culture was set up with a view to facilitating publishing and curatorial projects that explore the ways in which art and artists connect with place; illuminating lost or forgotten histories, imagining alternatives for the future, or simply unearthing and drawing attention to things in our environment that were hitherto overlooked or unrealised.

About Duke’s Wood Project

Our first offering, Duke’s Wood Project, began as a long-term research interest, looking at the history and socio-political significance of Duke’s Wood and the fascinating industrial heritage of the area. Duke’s Wood is now a nature reserve boasting a rich and thriving ecology, but once played host to a large-scale secret military operation – the drilling and excavation of our most prized yet politically contentious natural resource – crude oil. It was this unlikely coming together of two seemingly opposed things – heavy industrial and ecology – that attracted us to the site and has continued to provide a basis for detailed critical reflection.

So compelling was the story of Duke’s Wood, as documented in the extensive archive within the Duke’s Wood Oil Museum, and recalled by the museums curator’s Kevin Topham and John Lukehurst, that we began to imagine ways that a contemporary art project might respond to the place and extend its fascinating narrative. We resolved that an artist residency programme, inviting 9 contemporary artists to spend time at the wood at different points throughout the year, would encourage an intimate engagement with place and enable the in-depth level of exploration required.

Duke’s Wood Project is the result of over a year of such exploration and enquiry and the artworks you will find around the wood are manifestations of a sustained period of research undertaken by each of the artists involved.


Project Dates

The exhibition programme runs from August 31 until September 29, 2013 and takes place at the Duke’s Wood Nature Reserve near the village of Eakring in Nottinghamshire. The exhibition features 7 newly commissioned artworks sited around the wood.

Public Opening Events

Duke’s Wood Project opens to the pubic August 31st & September 1st with a weekend of special events. Press views will be help on Friday August 30 or by appointment.

Saturday August 31

From 12pm -late

Public launch of all newly commissioned artworks.
1-3pm – Family activities with Joanna Dacombe
3pm – Introductory tour with Dukes Wood Project Curators

Bow Down: A series of intermittent performances taking place in the woodland clearings throughout the day with poets Alec Finlay and Amy Cutler and singer Hanna Tuulikki.

5pm – 9pm – Opening reception at Duke’s Wood with film screenings and a live performance by Surfacing.

Sunday September 1

From 12pm

Public launch of all newly commissioned artworks.
1-3pm – Family activities with Joanna Dacombe
3pm – Introductory tour with Dukes Wood Project Curators


Duke’s Wood Project is supported by Arts Council England, Nottinghamshire Wildlife Trust, Nottinghamshire County Council, Newark & Sherwood District Council, Nottingham Contemporary, and The University of Nottingham

For more information or images please contact Sam West or Aaron Juneau on 07773176915 or 07771533316, alternatively email and/or


Opening times

Duke’s Wood Nature Reserve is open to the public at all times. Organised parties including school parties are particularly welcome. Bookings should be arranged through Ordinary Culture.

Duke’s Wood Oil Museum opening times:

Open every Sunday from around 12pm until 5pm

Open every Saturday & Sunday from around 12pm until 5pm

Tuesday – Sunday from: 12pm until 5pm.

Anne-Mie Melis – A Prospect

I intend to create an installation, an incongruous artificial environment in which forestry growth is nurtured. Decisions have to be made on how to realise this. What would be most beneficial to the woodland? Where would I install the nurturing units?

D W off the track on a cloudy day 3 July 2013

Dukes Wood off the track on a cloudy day, 3 July 2013

DW off the track on a sunny day 5 july 2013

Dukes Wood off the track on a sunny day, 5 July 2013 (Bernard Harling Memorial Pond)

nurturing trial 5 july 2013

Nurturing Trial, 5 July 2013 (manipulated image)


By Anne-Mie Melis

Stephen Turner – Succession

Image 1

Whatever our expectation, nature has its own agenda and proceeds to its own timetable, which I continue to observe and record.  On Saturday April 27th spring was running around three weeks late by accustomed measure. Many woodland species usually occupying separate moments of dominion, looked set for a more competitive battle for ascendancy than might have been expected.

Cowslip maturity stretched from bud to papery faded bloom throughout mown areas around the well heads close to Core 6 +53° 8’ 4.17  -0° 59’ 19.00. Splashes of their warmer yellow amongst lemony primrose and greener grass were notable, but spectacular drifts of wood anemone created their own dominant white sward that day.

Related colour-ways were continued with cascades of hawthorn blossom pushing against the footpath between waymarks 12 and 13 at +53° 8′ 9.58″, -0° 58′ 49.43″, picked up in creamy nettle flowers throughout the wood and concluded my journey with wild cherry blossom flanking the car park.

Image 2

Image 3


Image 4










Image 5


Image 6

Everything has its own moment in the sun, before being overlain and compacted in correlation to deeper geological strata below. I will have missed most of the bluebells by the time I return, though sufficient had already raised their heads beside delicate diminutive dog violet, herb robert and forget me not, to indicate the local chain of succession.

Small samples were procured and dried, but the olfactory wood has still to reveal itself through hot steam distillation or by fire; though last year’s crab apples and haws have given up a distinctive floral water and sweet smoke respectively.  When I return in June, I hope the honeysuckle may support my mission to find new fragrant potions for a fleeting temporal world.


By Stephen Turner

Alison Lloyd – Night Walks



Night Walking Out at Duke’s Wood with head torches.



Walking Out between sunrise and sunset.

No road_PATH

Walking Out between the ‘rights of way’ and the ‘private’.


Between public and private territories?


I have been walking during periods of darkness to experience the site at times of discomfort, anxiety and fear.


I am acknowledging something of the spirit of doubt and uncertainty in my own chosen journey through the process of walking to make work.  What exactly is the difference between being a walker and being a walking artist?  Where is the work?  The work can be here in Duke’s Wood and here in the Blog or somewhere else in an arts space?

By Alison Lloyd

Images courtesy Julian Hughes

Louise K. Wilson – In the ‘chthonic underworld’


Note: The remaining unsealed well at Dukes Wood has now been located. While excavation may not be as simple as first hoped – an attempt to gain (audible/ visible) access will be made shortly. Currently it is a cavity filled with imaginative possibility. In the meantime, I wanted to consider artists’ engagements with holes in the ground – and their acoustic potential.

If you enter “microphones + drilling + holes” or a similar combination into a search engine, it is likely that accounts of a sensational occurrence will be returned. It concerns a group of Russian scientists /geologists who were conducting deep drilling experiments in Siberia in the late 1980s. After breaking through the earth’s crust (at approximately nine miles down), they installed a heat tolerant microphone to monitor movement.  The scientists were shocked to pick up not the expected data but the screaming of millions of souls in torment – or so the story goes. Leaving aside such confabulations, there are of course credible scientific endeavours to listen to the movements of seismic waves. The desire for artists to listen and record down – deep down – into the ground has a relatively recent history however. In September of 1969 Bruce Nauman’s proposed UNTITLED (1969) – in which he succinctly exhorted us to:

“Drill a hole about a mile into the earth and drop a microphone to within a few feet of the bottom. Mount the amplifier and speaker in a very large empty room and adjust the volume to make audible any sounds that may come from the cavity.”

Forty years later, this thought experiment was realised by his fellow compatriot Doug Aitken with Sonic Pavilion (2009). This contentious commissioned work is permanently installed in the high expense open-air art gallery/ botanical garden of Inhotim in Brumadino in the Brazilian rainforest. Following a considerable period of planning and construction, a hole – approximately one mile long and one foot in diameter – was successfully bored.  An array of accelerometers and microphones were lowered down at various depths and the resulting sounds of the rotating earth and of seismic activity were “transposed” into the range of human audibility and amplified by eight speakers. Nauman’s ‘empty room’ was realised in this instance as an austere circular pavilion. The work subsequently received a critical mauling by Seth Kim Cohen in the review pages of Artforum (November 2009) where he denounced the thinking to parade such mediated sounds as ‘folly’. Surely this work problematically continues a naïve notion of sonic essentialism he argued. Philosopher Christoph Cox roundly attacked this critique against sound purporting to deliver a “noumenal essence of the world”. According to Cox, this work – amongst other pieces of sound art – is not attached to essentialism but to a “philosophical naturalism (that) insists human beings are of a piece with the natural world we inhabit”.

An arbitrary and certainly not exhaustive survey of other deep (as in subterranean) listening experiments brings to mind the crisp audible delights of Chris Watson’s sound collage Vatnajökull. Watson excavated into this eponymous glacier in Iceland with hydrophones, to bring back a varied uncanny selection of knocks, creaks, groans and more tender harmonics that were then collaged together. Time was compressed – a “10,000 year climatic journey of ice …and its lingering flow” was condensed into an eighteen-minute work (on Weather Report).  Jem Finer’s Score for a hole in the ground (in Kingswood Forest, near Challock in Kent) is not reliant on overtly technical devices. It takes inspiration from the suikinkutsu, or musical water chimes in Japanese temple gardens in which water from overflowing stone bowls drips down through stones to resonate in concealed dishes. These explorations of duration, of found musicality and of process demand close listening. Let the underworld speak!


By Louise K Wilson

Thanks to Alec Finlay for this expression



Jo Dacombe – Litmus

‘The chameleon leaves are litmus to the chemical changes going on inside them… The leaves of different species contain distinctive pigments: the yellow arotenoids of willow, poplar or hazel; the red anthocyanins of maple or dogwood (the same pigment you encounter on the rosy side of the apple where it faces the sun); or the earthy tannins of oak leaves…This is the natural chemistry that paints the woodland colours.’

Roger Deakin, Wildwood: A Journey Through Trees

I will be running a series of workshops for people local to, and visiting, the woodlands to engage them with some of the themes of the Duke’s Wood Project. I want to find a way to engage people more deeply, get beyond the surface of things and find the many layers of Dukes Wood. Not just the physical layers too, I wonder how the stories of Duke’s Wood, its layers of history, can be made visible; how can the unseen be seen?

I searched the woodlands for evidence of the unseen: measuring the contours of the land to try to spot where the earth had been shifted for drilling and piping underground; pressing my ear up against tree trunks, trying to imagine the sound of the sap rising inside; looking up at breaks in the canopy to see where sunlight might reach through to create warm spots on the earth; glaring at rock samples in the Duke’s Wood Museum and searching the contours of ancient bedrock shifts on geological maps.

rock samples

I started testing soil in response to a passage I read in one of the many pamphlets dotted around the museum. It stated that the cleared areas around the oil well sites were abundant with cowslips in the spring, and this was a result of the lime in the concrete that was used to line the drill holes, causing an alkaline seep into the soil. I wondered if this was true and how many other subtle chemical alterations had affected the woodlands over the course of its varied history.

ph paper


When I lined up the indicator papers I’d used for soil testing to compare their colours, a range of oranges, greens and yellows, responding to the composition in the soil, I felt they made visible the interconnectedness of the chemicals running through the woods and everything in it, responding to these environmental subtleties and in turn creating the colours of the woodland that Deakin’s beautiful book describes. Testing the soil made me aware of the make up of things, the inner life and the composition of the earth beneath me, chemical reactions that generate and regenerate the woodlands in a constantly evolving and adapting lifecycle.

Having an interest in foraging I am keenly aware of the chemicals of certain plants, with the often precarious balance between the nutritious and the poisonous. Duke’s Wood in the spring was a carpet of Wood Anemones, their pretty allure hiding their toxicity which can itch and burn. It often seems to me that the chemicals hidden behind the appearance of the woodland is part of the element of enchantment that woodlands hold for us, the magical element that can be delightful or deadly, nature’s double-sided face.

wood anemones


Through the workshops I hope that the participants and I will continue these explorations beyond the surface and discover what makes up Duke’s Wood, not just in the chemicals but in the many other layers that affect this sense of place.


by Joanna Dacombe

Stephen Turner – A Primrose Day and Keuper Clay

At 11am on Sunday April 7th, on the first warm day of the year, all trace of recent snow had melted to nothing. The tiny primrose previously glimpsed beneath an icy blanket was re-photographed and its slow progress monitored. In the eastern parts of the wood, more exposed to the Siberian weather, they were surprisingly much further advanced.

Primrose Growth

Primrose at Core 6 +53° 8’ 4.17  -0° 59’ 19.00


Wood anemones were waking in an old hedge beside the parish boundary at +53° 8’ 1.05”  0° 58’ 59.87”, but it was impossible to detect any of the sharp musky smell that gives this plant its alternative names of smelly fox and moggie nightgown. Most ground cover to either side of the woodland paths was made up of a widespread dog’s mercury in drifts of pale green speckled with a metallic blue on leaves and stems frosted by the recent cold. Another spring messenger and Wordsworth’s favourite flower, the lesser celandine was not so numerous yet, but a few bright yellow fellows were out to say hello.

Wood Anenome


Celandine Pressing

Another Bower Flower for Alec.

Soon as gentle breezes bring

News of Winter’s vanishing

And the children build their bowers

Sticking ‘kerchief-plots of mould

All about with full-blown flowers

Thick as sheep in shepherds fold!

With the proudest Thou art there

Mantling in the tiny square.

W. Wordsworth

To the Small Celandine and To the Same Flower (above), were composed in the spring of 1802 and first published in Poems in Two Volumes in 1807. Published in Flora Britannica, ed. Richard Mabey 1996, p49.

I collected crab apples grounded since autumn last year with a view to distilling, as well as a pocket full of old hawthorn berries and another of rose hips as part of a new spring and (old) autumn collection. A handful of pungent leaved ground ivy held the promise of a fragrant essential oil.

Ground ivy, like most plants will only release tiny amounts of oil by volume (around 0.05%) and production in these fields would be very low; even without the constraints of SSSI protection. It may be more productive to consider incense, made from dried plant material, as a supplementary and sustainable means of drawing out the particular spell of this place.

Koeberrling & Kaltwasser’s facade for the oil museum references a geological landscape stretching up from oil rich anti-cline though shale, limestone, sandstone and five hundred feet of red Keuper clay that sits closest to the surface.  Keuper red 1131 is sold as a very smooth textured, light rustic red earthenware body. It is a true local colour and might be used to make a distinctive burner for incense.

Keuper Clay


Oak Leaf

Alec Finlay – bower  |  shelter

X New Bud Bough Bower crop
word-drawing (bud-bough-bower), AF, 2012

My work for Duke’s Wood envisages a bower; a wild shelter in which people can spend the night. To better grasp what form this might take, I am working with collaborators to touch on aspects of the culture of temporary natural shelters, exploring some of the different types of construction and their various uses, from ice fishing to arighs out on the sheiling.

This wide-ranging conversation will, over the coming Spring, make the transition from mindscape – poetry, song, and image – to landscape. Come Summer we will enter the constructive mode. A bower will be made.

I’m mindful that I am going to sleep under this wild shelter, for at least one night, and that, whatever materials the walls and roof are made from, I would like my bed to be dry. This adds impetus to the design process.

A wild shelter
wild shelter, Rosehall Primary School, Lairg; photograph Graeme Smith, 2009

Amy Todman, an artist and art historian, shared her ideas and, through our chats, I became aware of the complex and shifting relationship between the natural shelters that humans have always made use of, the classic bowers of the forest, and their artificial double, the garden arbour.

To these two outdoor forms, arbour & bower, a third can be added, for, coming indoors, making the transition into the realm of architecture, we enter the erotic bower, or boudoir.

In old ballads and songs the term bower is used interchangeably for the woodland and roofed version, whether the lovers happen on a hideaway in the forest, or enjoy their liberty in a boudoir.

B Child Ballads

Hanna Tuulikki sent me a profusion of examples of lines describing bowers in the Child Ballads; here the listener pictures the scene depending on the description: lattice branches, the door of a painted bedroom, or, in some lines, the ‘bigly bower’, shelter of the pudenda.

///a little to yonder green bower
 there sit down to rest you
///and has he broke your bigly bowers? 
or has he stole your fee
///and he came to the ladie’s bower-door,
 before the day did dawn
///and then my love built me a bower, 
bedeckt with many a fragrant flower
///and when he came to Fair Margaret’s bower,
 he knocked at the ring
///and ye may swear, and save your oath, 
your bower I never tread
///who is this at my bower-door, 
sae well that kens my name?

One reason for this confusing use of ‘bower’ is that, in historical terms, there was no readily defined space – nor expectation – that, within their own dwelling, an ordinary person should be at liberty to enjoy privacy, or have entry to a room they could share with their lover.

The bowers of the forest offered privacy and, in the sung bowers we can hear society being impelled towards the creation of private space. Safe within stone walls, boudoirs mimic wildness and woodland, offering scenarios for sex recalled in the flowery patterns of bedspreads and pillows.

D William Morris honeysuckle
honeysuckle, William Morris

In their essay, ‘Interior Bowers: The Dormant Wilderness of Nineteenth- Century Boudoirs’, Mark Taylor and Julieanna Preston describe the boudoir as ‘the intersection of landscape and surface pattern’, an interior of ‘vegetal ornamentation’, in which ‘Nature, in the appearance of a garden, envelopes the interior wall and carpet in the guise of designed artifice.’ They quote from Francois de Bastide’s novel of 1780, La Petit Maison:

‘The walls of the boudoir were covered with mirrors whose joinery was concealed by carefully sculpted, leafy tree trunks. The trees, arranged to give the illusion of a quincunx, were heavy with flowers and laden with chandeliers. The light from their many candles receded into the opposite mirrors, which had been purposely veiled with hanging gauze. So magical was this optical effect that the boudoir could have been mistaken for a natural wood, lit with the help of art … Mélite could scarcely contain her delight’.

Woodland Platform, Hidden Gardens
the woodland platform, the hidden gardens
Alec Finlay & Chris Rankin, 2002

Returning outdoors, there has been an upsurge in art-architectural constructions, shelters of many scales that offer a hybrid form of public private shelter and reclusion. Though the purpose of these dwellings is never overtly erotic, one often hears tales of folk who spent the night their, or were interrupted.

Hidden as these places may be, they are more likely to be constructed so as to direct our eyes towards a view. Ken Cockburn and I visited a number of these constructions on our road north journey, where they become our proxy for the temples Basho visited – themselves frequently placed so as to offer an inspiring view – and we attempted to summarize the movement (for it has surely earned that name):

every era of eyes
enshrines vision
granting the volcanic
tumult of mountains
the richly accented
outline of tradition

the vision flows on
through Druidic groves
and the tenebrous
lantern of the church
to the beal of today’s
secular temenos

mountainside frottage cottage
wooden platform
stone enclosure
roofless shelter
lay temples that raise
our eyes to Gaia’s skies

E Outlanda
Outlandia, London fieldworks & Malcolm Fraser Architects, 2010

Some notes: the Scots word ‘beal’ is an estuary; the temenos Ken and I had in mind was James Turrell’s sky-space at Kinloch-Rannoch; the frottage cottage is the hut, Outlandia, in Glen Nevis; the Woodland Platform is my own work, made with Chris Rankin, for the hidden gardens; the roofless shelter is the collaborative An Turas, on the isle of Tiree.

In Duke’s Wood, the bower returns us to an earlier mode of shelter, for lovers and the outcast. The first steps I took, in terms of imagining how such a construction might look, were to refer back to The Woodland Platform, built in the hidden gardens to house a xylotheque – a library of the native woodland, represented by wooden books.

F xylo

I did once spend an August night in the hidden gardens, in the company of a posse of poets, writing a 24 hour renga. Though there is a roof, the cupola is open to the sky, so that the oak can grow tall. This is a root-friendly building, not intended to be dry, or for overnighting.

My next model for the bower was a kind of austere alpinist wig-wam that I discovered when I was working on a poetic mapping of Skye – A Company of Mountains, launching this May.

G Rennie's shelter
Rennie’s design, 1897

This is the wonderful kennel-style wooden tent that Rennie designed for a party of climbers in 1897. Its rudimentary walls guarded against Coruisk’s torrential rain, but the shape seemed too implacably solid to qualify as a bower – which, to my mind, is more a matter of weave than solid plane.

Then, as if by magic, just at the right moment, I discovered the architect Kevin Langan’s wild shelters – 100 wild huts, to be made within a strict set of principles:

‘built on any piece of ground that harbours enough natural resources; to sleep rough in each shelter for one night; to experiment with hut form, structure and materiality’.

H Wild Hut 07 copy
wild shelter 7, Kevin Langan, 2013

Immediately I was sure that I had found the key collaborator for Duke’s Wood.

The bower will be made to Kevin’s design, and a future blog will discuss his work in more detail.

For now, I want to juxtapose Kevin’s contemporary shelters with the tradition of the bower.

To shed light on the culture of bowers, I invited Amy Todman to select a range of structures, made from many types of material, illustrated in paintings, embroideries, and engravings. I suggested that she should set each bower alongside one of ‘Langan’s lodges’.

courtesy Victoria and Albert Museum

Arbour, arbor, n. A bower or shady retreat, of which the sides and roof are formed by trees and shrubs closely planted or intertwined, or of lattice-work covered with climbing shrubs and plants, as ivy, vine, etc. Forms: ME–15 erber (e, herber(e, ME herbier, erbor, arbre, ME–15 arber, 15 herbor, harber, herbour, arboure (all obs.), 15– arbour, arbor. (The original characteristic of the ‘arbour’ seems to have been the floor and ‘benches’ of herbage; in the modern idea (since 16th c. at least) the leafy covering is the prominent feature.)

—OED Online, June 2012 (Oxford University Press)

In talking over what we each understood of the bower, Alec and I discovered a shared sense of its hovering between several more-familiar histories. I saw the arbour, a made-structure, in relation to the grove, an apparently accidental arrangement of trees. The bower seems to usefully overlap and borrow from both, in its etymologies and visual imagery.

The historic range of forms selected here reflect the bower’s idiosyncratic nature, its romantic but also practical possibilities. Pairing these ‘pretty’ old forms with Langan’s more clearly functional structures brings similarities, often structural, rather than temporal distance, to the fore.

The relationships between the paired forms are clear, and begin to sketch out, in word and image, the combination of reference points, aesthetic and practical, that informed, and continue to inform the idea of the bower across time, cultures, and uses. Kevin’s contemporary refuges renew a need we have always had.



7 Virgin and child

brave and recreative
arbours to rest under


Wild Hut 13

3 Tierra del Fuego bower

weeping bowers
for fires and showers


Wild Hut 10

2 lady_honor_450

turf dais bowers
screened in the garden

Wild Hut 14

4 the nuptial bower

plants and bracken


Wild Hut 06

5 BM Bower of Venus

both love and paine
that builde their bower in brest


Wild Hut 02

8 walled garden

where the Mayd-Bower
had wont to be



6 BM book illustration bower

A cover of reed
A quilt of flowers


Stephen Turner – Unscented Spring

Poking Through

Dog’s Mercury at the entrance to Dukes Wood 22nd March 2013

The snow began to fall shortly before arriving at the Saracen’s Head in Southwell on Friday March 22 at approximately 6pm and continued heavily the following morning until abating locally around midday when I could set out to cover a short eight miles to Duke’s Wood.

A bitter easterly wind, blowing powdery white flurries across already impressively thick snow, impeded progress. Initial reconnaissance suggested that the entirety of the woodland floor was blanketed, locking up any scent of the earth and any evidence of the fresh fragrance of springtime.  No prints by man nor beast disturbed the virginity of the surface around woodland marker no.2 and the first of the oil rig Nodding Donkey’s @ +53° 8’ 4.17  -0° 59’ 19.00

Snowed Donkey

 Donkey in westernmost Glade

Snow Drill

Nozzle Drill 

With the Donkey as a central loci, twelve bore holes were sunk along a five metre radius with a clear acrylic drill, exposing the ground to olfactory sensation and visual observation through 55mm nozzles (nose holes), sunk to an average depth of 180mm. This improvised and qualitative study revealed little evidence of specific springtime flora reputed to flourish at this location and will necessitate a further survey when winter has released its grip. However, nozzle six revealed a small primrose leaf pressed down beneath grasses.

Sniff Hole

Core 6 Primrose leaf

 Sniffing Snow

 The ground had an earthy, damp mossy fragrance’

Southwell Minster revived wilting spirits and Alec’s ideas for a summertime leafy shelter in the wood were conjured up by an abundance of carving in the octagonal stone bower of its Chapterhouse. Leaves of rose, maple, hawthorn, hop, bryony and oak envelop capitals and creep up every arch to foliate ceiling bosses; a spiritual green rhapsody created over 700 years ago by an unknown sculptor extolling the commonplace plants of his parish and sharing a deep intelligence with nature. Back at the Saracen’s Head to check out, the only thing blooming was the side of a large white van.

Leaves of Southwell


Stone Leaf


Bloomin Ek

Dan Robinson – Cabin for Duke’s Wood


Hunt cabin on Lorraine regional nature reserve, France. Photo: Dan Robinson

I first encountered this hunt cabin in 2010 whilst preparing for an artist residency as Mud Office[1] with Synagogue de Delme contemporary art centre. The cabin’s architecture is not dissimilar to several bird-hides nearby. These structures – for looking and waiting – variously conceal wildlife observers, telescopic devices, books, snacks and guns. During our three month residency this cabin site also served as a sort of studio annexe where objects, actions, sound and video were processed, assembled and broadcast.

Today, a near-identical cabin is being built in Dukes Wood, Nottinghamshire. Its potential use will be tested as part of Ordinary Culture’s spring – autumn programme. The cabin is not open to the general public, but may be used and/or appropriated by staff, volunteers or guests of The Wildlife Trust, Dukes Wood Oil Museum or Ordinary Culture[2]. The cabin is being built in a small patch of undergrowth at the northern boundary of Dukes Wood, with distant views north across fields, and discreet viewing of Dukes Wood’s flora, fauna and users.

Building the structure at the start of the programme allows time to see if uses may or may not develop over the summer. Following this, further adaptations to the cabin could be possible in the autumn. My residency period at Dukes will be probably be largely spent near the cabin seeing what might happen.


Newspaper insert for Black Dogs Quarterly. Dan Robinson, 2013


An oversized camera for recording and projecting. Drawing on whiteboard: Dan Robinson, 2013

Related links:


Wild Boar in Britain

Dan Robinson

Mirador de chasse

Stuctures, children and safety

Mud Office

CAC Synagogue de Delme

The Wildlife Trust

Dukes Wood Oil Museum

[1] Mud Office (Dan Robinson & Charlie Jeffery)

[2] At their own risk.

Louise K. Wilson – Best Kept Secret

Weed Louise

The twentieth century industrial history of Dukes Wood is a fascinating one.  Fact mixes with anecdote in accounts of the story behind the drilling that began in 1943 – the voyage of the oil that was extracted (suited to the Rolls Royce Merlin Engine apparently) and the vital presence of the Texas/ Oklahoma ‘roughnecks’ (bizarrely billeted in the nearby Anglican monastery at Kelham Hall). Their quantity is now reduced down to the singularity of the Oil Patch Warrior statue. I wonder if oral histories were gathered when some of the survivors attended its unveiling?

These narratives echo my interest in industrial archaeology (and what can be seen from the air). The nodding donkeys were apparently painted to merge with the foliage – and while only a few remain, still appear odd intruders. But how far could the woodland absorb the cacophonous sound of the drilling?

Louise Oil Man

At ground level, I am curious to find the ‘inaudible’ that can be brought to attention. I wonder about the wells – the sheer number (two hundred at least) that were drilled. Can any enclosed air be sampled from these remaining fissures, to be treated as material (with all its connotations)? Arguably sound is intrinsically suited to an investigation of the relationship between ourselves and between spaces because, to quote Steven Connor ‘where vision only ever gives us information about the surface of things, sound can inform us about otherwise invisible interiorities – the sturdiness of a wall, the state of the lungs…’. The likelihood of extracting this sonic material is of course fanciful but I wonder if an auditory archaeology of sorts could be practiced.

I am reminded of the work of auditory archaeologist[1] Dr Steve Mills who some years ago made a study of a post-medieval mining landscape in Cornwall. He created GIS (Geographical Information Systems) maps to provide a digital interface for the unveiling of sonic layers: the sounds of the past – captured from machines relocated elsewhere – combined with contemporary literary accounts -and his own accumulated recordings (‘data’). It was an endeavour to study the importance of sound in the everyday and importantly to consider the memory of what is heard.

Louise Tree

In considering the collision of the natural world with industrial remnants etc. I have a thought about making an audio map of Dukes Wood. I plan to scavenge off the path (carefully) and do some tests with different microphones. Geophones (ie contact microphones in the ground) might pick up soundwaves through the earth (since these can detect sound waves in solid materials).  The placement of these being akin to ‘drilling’ down … recording human activity – perhaps extending inside other structures… I need to try some things out. The intention is not to import the sound that apparently displaced the woodland ambience however but to consider the traces of this past and the dynamics of the Wood as it is now. How might it be to spend the night listening (availing oneself of Alec Finlay’s welcoming bowers?): to describe, and to score the shifting terrain of heard and imagined sounds.

[1] “An approach that studies the important influence and significance of the sound environment in past daily life” from

Alec Finlay – Jamie’s Bower

Honeysuckle crop
word-drawing (honeysuckle), AF, 2012

The method of the bower project is to work from the made thing
of poetry to the woven construction, in situ.

This poem by Kathleen Jamie seems to perfectly encapsulate the
potentiality of name-becoming-form. I thank her for permission
to include it here.

The Bower

Neither born nor gifted
crafted, nor bequeathed
this forest dwelling’s little
but a warp or tease
in the pliant light trees
soften and confine.
Though it’s nothing
but an attitude of mind
mere breath rising in staves,
the winds assail
its right to exist, this anchorage
or musical-box, veiled

Kathleen Jamie
first published, Irish Review 28 (2001)

Kathleen Jamie is Chair of Creative Writing at the University of Stirling

Alison Lloyd – ‘Walking Out’


Wider ‘contouring’ of Dukes Wood and Dukeries for Ordinary Culture. Beech trees in Dilliner Wood North and Silver Birch at Black Hill Clump within Clumber and Hardwick CP – image – Alison Lloyd

If you look at the Sherwood Forest Mansfield, Worksop & Edwinstowe OS Map 270 you will see that there is no ‘Dukes’ Wood.  There is Pudding Poke Wood, Redgate Wood leading to Crowhill Wood, Nut Wood, Roe Wood, Dillner Wood, Hagley’s Plantation and Mansey Common.  If you follow the right of way footpath between Nut Wood and Roe Wood along this narrow strip of woodland you can look out south to Broadclose Wood, along the Robin Hood Way.  I have begun to ‘contour’ these woodland boundaries between sunset and moonrise.


My preferred walking terrain is a mountainous area, and if I cannot get out on to the hills in the Lakes, Snowdonia or Scotland I like to stride out across the bleak moorland in the Dark Peak in Derbyshire. I have also taken to walking at night with my head torch and spare batteries in lower lying areas, to re-enact some of my experiences hiking in geographically ‘remote’ places such as Glen Brittle in Skye, and the Cairngorms.  Places that could be viewed as some of the few remaining ‘wilderness’ areas in the UK.



During these walks I am exploring my understanding of ‘wilderness’ and take with me a book by Paul Shepheard, ‘The Cultivated Wilderness – or what is Landscape’ and a paper written by David Reason, ‘Reflections of Wilderness and Pike Lane Pond’.

Walking in an area bound by fences, walls and hedges and private woods I am constrained from wandering freely, unlike my walking areas of choice.  I could ignore the boundaries and climb over the fences and once more ‘stride out’ across the fields or meander through the private woods. I have chosen to follow the boundaries, which contradicts my particular excitement in finding places where I can easily roam and ‘contour’ off the beaten track to any point on the map.


We do not so much need to understand the form and nature of our emotional relationship with wilderness, as to recognise that the nature of wilderness is itself formed from our emotional being.

David Reason, Reflections of Wilderness and Pike Land Pond

The wilderness is not a landscape you visit, it is all around you, wherever you are.

Paul Shepheard, The Cultivated Wilderness – or what is Landscape


I will walk during periods of darkness to experience the site at times of discomfort, if not quite anxiety and fear.

Dukes Wood car park is about 1 kilometre from the nearest village (Eakring).  The car park is regularly used for ‘Car Sex’ so there are times when I am not so sure that I want to be parked up there and walking solo and find myself accused of ‘Dogging’. Walking the area through 24 hours in an informal, disjointed way seems to go well with my desire to walk off the beaten track and to re-claim, a place as a lone woman walking artist.



I imagine that I am going against the grain, rebelling, redressing the balance of women artist’s striding out across the landscape; the lone figure in the landscape in what could be seen as an aggressive act.

I have been ‘walking out’ to eight ring contours around Alport Moor and Dale west of Derwent Reservoir and south of Bleaklow in the Dark Peak. The terrain is rough moorland and extends to five square kilometres.


image courtesy of Julian Hughes

Alport Moor is an area known for its Mountain or Arctic Hares. Its plateau-like contours were chosen because I felt it could stand in for the Cairngorm Plateau; a remote place that I could visit over and over again as a lone woman walker. I aim to re-claim this, ‘romantic territory’, which has been mainly associated with male artists who have walked out alone and focused to make their work. I am striding out on my own in way that could be described as an aggressive act of walking, to my own ‘summit’ and the eight remote ‘ring contours’.

In an email exchange with John Hammersley we discussed my reflection on fear, anxiety and awkwardness, and Petrach’s ascent of Ventoux, where there is something of the spirit of doubt and uncertainty in his journey. There is also doubt that he actually walked up the mountain and that his description of his journey was a metaphorical one.



image by Colette Ayers

I am noticing my fear, anxiety, and awkwardness in relationship to these places where getting lost or feeling lost can happen. I have also noticed a difference between fearing you are lost and fearing you have lost a walking companion – lost or abandoned. The paths to get lost on are the circular paths I am making in the ‘marking’ of the contours in the Dark Peak.  A circular path that reflects the hermeneutic circle is non-linear and often a path for getting oneself lost on.

by Alison Lloyd