Notes on Intra-action

Thinkers such as Morton and the (now controversial)evolutionary biologist Richard Dawkins define environment as being nothing but the phenotypical expression of DNA code. Our DNA does not stop expressing itself at our fingertips, or in the case of a beaver at their whiskers. Rather, they would argue that a beavers DNA, as an extended phenotype, does not even stop expressing itself at the end of its dam, but continues to expand as far as the effects of that dam might reach (Dawkins, 305). My own research invites us to imagine these individual expressions of DNA as they intra-act with the extended phenotypes of others in a unique and ephemeral dance. The creative research for my MFA thesis was primarily in collaboration with a mated beaver pair, the three of us actively (and temporarily) interfering with the flow of a wetland stream and the lifeforms in that stream — the beavers, through the construction of their dam, and I by making simple formal dance postures with my feet in the stream nearby. The list of participants does not end there, for the DNA expressions of each of the wetland plants and all the life forms in that stream are also intimately involved in this entanglement.

THE BEAVER

My first clear memory of the Beaver took place a few summers back, while working on the confluence of the Bow and Elbow rivers. I spent a lot of time in this area studying the various personalities of each river, moving their currents through me as I painted. On this particular late summer evening, I sat on a small sandy bank, on the Southwest point of the confluence. Directly across the Elbow from me was a small rocky beach where locals (in the know) escaped the scorch of high summer. The rivers are low this time of year, and peppered with lawn chairs holding human bodies ankle deep in cold water, sporting cans of camouflaged beer. Dogs swim out to capture whatever object their person had decided to toss in the cool water for them. On occasion, groups of twenty somethings would tether a raft to the shore, floating lazily in the nearly still Elbow, smoke from shared joints hanging heavy in the breezeless air.

This was a stifling August, and still early in the evening. From the far shore, I was witness to all the languorous goings on, but was far more interested in the light dancing on the water, teasing out threads of sky blue and gold on its surface. Mesmerised by the dance, I did not realize how still I had become. Something had struck the water beside me, the sound hard and flat. Startled, I looked up to glimpse the beaver gliding effortlessly around the small bend toward the Bow. I imagined them sitting beside me as I painted, and wondered at how I could not have known they were there. I didn’t know it at the time, but the vibration created by the beaver striking their tail on the water carries a message of alarm to their family. Danger is imminent. Any romantic notions I might have held of myself and the beaver blissfully sharing space on that day were quickly dispelled by that learning. The beaver’s family lodge lay upstream, just around the bend from where I sat and I was the imminent danger, even in my stillness.

A few days later, I found myself in the same spot. Dusk was near. I was content in my aloneness, engulfed by the complex rhythms of the two rivers. I heard loud talking coming up behind me. It was a father and son by the sound of their conversation. They wore waders and tackle vests, each carrying a fly rod. The father did all the talking. You could hear his need to connect with the son in his voice. I didn't pay much attention to them initially. People moved through this area as I worked all the time. Regulars tend to give each other space along the river here, respecting the norms of privacy most seek out in these types of environments. The two remained close, however, rubbing up against my solitude. The distance required between them to get a good cast didn’t allow for intimate conversation either, leaving the father calling out loudly to his son, as he contrived this moment to be a bonding one. Irritated, I wished them to move on soon. Instead, the loud deep voice of the father continued to jab at the air around me. I bristled along with the nearby trees. The son? A mere shadow to me that day. I don't recall him speaking at all. There was a sudden startled scream and a flailing splash as a body unwittingly hit the water. I imagined the father slipping on a rock. He called out again to his son, laughing nervously.

Having had enough of the unwelcome distraction, I packed up my paints and prepared to leave. As I was pulling my wheeled toolbox along the grassy path away from the river, I saw the father and son one last time. They were also leaving. The father excitedly told me what had happened, his voice and gestures even more animated by the close encounter. It turns out the beaver had swum directly underneath the loud talker, deftly knocking his legs out from under him. It was no accident. Visualising the scene I had heard only moments earlier, I let go of my annoyance with him and laughed at the story. Through all the lightness, however, I felt a rather profound connection with the beaver. For in that moment, the beaver and I had shared the very same inclination.

This story, riddled with conflicting rhythms and vibrations, represents only a few moments (translated through my individual perception) of an ancient and complex ecosystem in which many lifeforms, rhythms, vibrations and communications have come and gone, often happening simultaneously, all bumping up against, informing and evolving with one another. These rhythms have been cresting through this ecosystem for an estimated 13,000 years that the Bow River has been running in the form we know it today. This fact alone is humbling. I can’t fully imagine what 13,000 years means, but I do feel the weight of my own years, and try to imagine all the changes — and all that has not changed during this time. In geologic time however, it is much older than that, for the Bow and Elbow rivers are water courses that pre date glacial times as far back as 2.5 million years ago (Calgary Public Library 2014).

Meditating on the wisdom such an ancient river must have to share, I consider my own smallness, my naivety, my inability to comprehend the immense totality of both time and space that is our ecological reality.Then I am reminded of the practice of UK artist Susan Derges who wonders about the memory of her own non-human collaborator, the River Taw. Like me, the work stems from Derges relationship with her direct environment, familiar places to her where she walks daily. She is also moved to ask questions about her own nature and existence in society, and the realities of the universe, while exploring our feelings of separation from the natural world (Chandler 2018). Through her intra-actions with the River Taw, Derges invites the Taw to write itself via photograms. Her participation in these translations (much like my own work along the Bow and Elbow rivers), ultimately becomes a process of self discovery. Of course, I don’t invite my surrounding environment to write itself, but if Jacob von Uexküll is correct in his musings about the musical laws of nature, my surrounding environment may just be writing itself through me.