An old sea-buckthorn (Hippophaë rhamnoides) bending down over the rocks bordering the sea shore in Ursinin Kallio Park in Helsinki is surrounded by a fence and decorated with a sign stating that it is a protected nature monument – “rauhoitettu luonnonmuistomerkki” in Finnish, “fridlyst naturminnesmärke” in Swedish. “Puumainen tyrni” and “trädformig havtorn” would translate as tree-like or tree-shaped sea-buckthorn. It is protected, because it is unusually big and old, I assume. There is a smaller one only a few meters further west on the shore without any fence.
Because most of the trees I have spent time with this year, the pines on Skifferholmen as well as the pines on Örö are rather unremarkable, generally speaking, I felt it was about time to engage with a remarkable tree. And a tree designated as a monument is remarkable, isn’t it? Instead of trying to make direct physical contact, which would be easy, because the tree reaches beyond the fence, I decided to simply sit next to it and try to see what I could learn by observing it closely. I had in mind some exercises in perception described by Craig Holdrege in his book Thinking Like a Plant (2013). The aim is also to place myself inconspicuously next to the the tree in a manner that will not disturb (or be disturbed by) all the people walking along the shore. Moreover, I decided to write some “field notes” after each short session, and upload them on the RC together with the usual still images from the video, to form a diary of sorts.
The first thing I noticed were the strange buds covering the shrub all over, looking like weird bugs or outgrowths. They will probably become leaves only much later in spring, and remain like this during March, which is the month I plan to spend with the sea-buckthorn.
My second visit to Örö this year has resulted in some new acquaintances. I have resumed my daily practice with the pine next door, of course, and I went to sit with the pine on the shore and even recorded a talk or attempt at a conversation, in Swedish. The text, and the text from my first visit in January, are added to my Swedish blog, in a post called “Tala om det för tallen” (tell it to the pine) here.
I have also met some new pines, however, like the spider pine that I recorded briefly from two opposite directions for In the Spider Pine 1 and 2 (see images below).
I wrote letters to pines as well, one letter to the small strangely bent pine on the northwestern shore on 21 February in the video Dearest Pine(with text) (15 min 45 sec), and another letter to the large pine tree on the northeastern cliff on 23 February in the video Esteemed Pine Tree (16 min 15 sec). These two letters, written by hand in English, and added to the videos as text scrolls rather than spoken voice-overs as I did before, are archived here below as well.
I hope you don’t mind my climbing on to your trunk, or branch, like some giddy goat – quite inappropriate behaviour for an old lady, I guess. But you are bent in such a funny and almost inviting way, so I simply had to try if I could get up on your “back”, as it were. Today the whole island of Örö is silent, almost miraculously so. Not only because there are no people – well, there are four people in the residency house in the south, and one woman is staying in her cottage not that far from the cottage where I am staying for now – no, it is because there is no wind, absolutely no wind – and that is rare in the outer archipelago; or is this the middle archipelago, perhaps. And not only is there no wind, there is a soft mist, almost like rain, that dampens all sounds. Here on the western shore the silence is so poignant because the sea is completely silent, too; it is not only still, it is covered with ice, frozen. Usually, the sea is roaring at least on some side of the island and is audible from everywhere. It is very beautiful for human eyes, with the soft greyish white hues conforming by softening all the hues of green and brown and the rust of the pine trunks. I wonder if you would find it so? Perhaps bright sunlight is what you find most beautiful, because that is energy for you, your food. Or then the equivalence of beauty is the pleasure of a soft rain shower. At least it is probably nice when there are no insects trying to get in under your bark, and they should be asleep or dead now. I guess you would not like me to sit here for very long, because my more than 50 kilos mean quite a burden for your trunk. I don’t feel it sway or bounce under my weight, though- I wonder what made you bend like this. Was there another branch that has fallen away, or did this part of the trunk bend in such a strange manner to counterbalance some other part that has now disappeared? Anyway, I guess I should better leave you to “stretch” yourself after my weight, and to be honest I can feel the dampness through my clothes. – There is a duck or something similar sounding somewhere towards the north. I am not completely alone as an “animal” here, after all. Well, of course not. Although all the human footprints in the snow, at least the fresh ones, are my own, from yesterday or the day before, there are other footprints by hares, those I recognise, and then something that could be deer and then the small dog or cat like marks that are probably of the invasive species that has come here and is called raccoon dog in English. They move around mainly in the dark, I guess. The ones I see, or rather hear, are the birds. But they, too, are mostly silent now in the mist. So, thank you for letting me play at being a youngster here on your branch, and I hope you enjoy the rest of the winter and the coming spring. Bye, bye for now…
Esteemed Pine Tree, or should I say esteemed colleague in this business of living on earth. Pleased to meet you this rainy-misty Tuesday afternoon, at the end of February, here on Örö or Ear Island in the southwestern archipelago of Finland. Only a few days ago there was a thick snow cover on the island, and the sea is still frozen – quite unusual in these times of global warming. Now, however, the thaw season seems to be here, and there are heavy drops of water landing on this paper every now and then. From where I it her on your lowest branch I have a beautiful view to the sea on the eastern shore, and the small rocks and islets that rise up from the whitish grey ice. There is not much wind, which is unusual, and makes the place very silent. Normally, you would have the roar of the sea from some part of the island and also the sound of the wind in the trees, now that the sea is silent. Today I can only her the occasional “drip”, “drop”. – We have not met before, you grow here a little to the side from the walking path, and I noticed your beautiful location only a few days ago when visiting another pine in the vicinity. At that time, I mistook the low-growing juniper on the rocks to be part of your branches and decided to return. And that I did, today. When I tried to place my camera tripod, I noticed I had forgotten the memory card – incredibly stupid of me. There was nothing else to do but to return, have some lunch and rest a little, and then start out again. And here I am. Luckily dusk is falling later and later, so there is still time. And after all, I wonder if I have anything special to tell you. Yes, they are killing some of your relatives on the other side of the island, in order to keep the landscape at least partly open. Basically, you can live here in peace because this is a national park now, so nothing to be afraid of, unless they want to restore some earlier landscape on the island, when there were less trees. That is the nature of trees to spread out and grow into woods and forests, I guess. You are invaders, for sure. That is natural, so why combat that? Well, probably because there are some species of plants and animals that need the open landscape in order to survive. So, you will have to endure some restrictions to your expansion, like everybody else. Everybody else except humans, or so it seems. There seems to be no limit to our rights of intrusion and exploitation. And in some manner my sitting here on your branch is an example of that brutal mentality, although there are much worse examples, of course. Anyway, that is another story; that I will not bother you with now. Let me finish by simply expressing my gratitude for your generosity. I really appreciate the possibility to spend this moment here with you, on you, talking (or rather writing) to you. I wish you all the best for the coming spring. Take care!
Yesterday the online, open access publication Meetings with Remarkable and Unremarkable Trees in Johannesburg and Environs, published by ARA (Arts Research Africa) at Wits University in Johannesburg was officially launched with an event on zoom. The publication itself is openly available here, http://wiredspace.wits.ac.za/handle/10539/30395 ; there is an online version and a print-on-demand version for ‘self-printing’. The publication is the result of my ARA residency about this time last year, which was interrupted by the pandemic. Originally we had the plan of organising a screening consisting of some of the video works made together with the trees introduced to me by generous colleagues. Now it feels like this option, a publication, which was a surrogate at first, is in many ways much better, since it a) remains and b) is accessible to more people.
The launching event was quite fascinating, too, organised by professor Christo Doherty, who had invited some of the contributors to say a few words: Manola Gayatri Kumarswamy, Myer Taub, Donald McCallum and Busisiwe Mahlangu. And some of the reviewers, too, I guess, and experts in the field like Anna Birch and Mareli Stolp. They all had beautiful presentations, questions and comments, but I want to remember especially the idea Manola mentioned, about the tree as a kind of ‘third space’, which enabled meetings across differences without focusing on those differences, or that is how I understood it. And then one of the points Myer took up, the poem by Brecht from 1939, which he quoted: “What kind of times are these, when to talk about trees is almost a crime because it implies silence about so many horrors?” That poem I remember very well from a Finnish political song in the 1970’s. And somehow it feels like these are such times again…
Should I choose a tree to visit for the year of the ox, which begun at Chinese New Year on 12 February, or not? Should I be repeating myself again, with these eternal time-lapse videos? On the other hand, why not? In the end I decided to choose a tree on Harakka Island and to visit it only once a month, to create a simple calendar as the one I made with a pine in Koivumäki in 2007 and by returning to the site of the year of the horse in 2014. Visiting a tree once a month is very easy compared to visiting them once a week or daily. And although the depiction of the year will be rather rough, it will hopefully be enough to indicate the major changes. But which tree, then?
Initially I thought of the maple tree on the hill above the so-called nature house, because it has a branch that I thought I could climb up to sit on (see image above). When I went there with my camera on the sunny Monday 15th, I realized it would be hard for me to get up without some kind of stool to assist me. And as a lazy person I chose to sit on the lowest branch of the nearby birch. The branch was bent so low, and so conveniently, that it was almost welcoming, so why bother with more complicated things (see image below).
After all, a birch is a nice and supportive pal for all kinds of beginnings, and the birch on Harakka will hopefully serve as my trusted friend for the coming year. I will see it every time I go to my studio, and perhaps I could go and sit with it even without a camera as a witness? That I usually never do, but this birch is growing so near that I could give it a try. For the calendar, I need the camera, though, and I tried to find a place for it that I could somehow recognize and repeat, next to the branch a small oak tree growing between the path and the birch.
To continue holding on to the little pine on Skifferholmen or to start the practice of “becoming tree” with the taller pine behind it, that was the question. Or possibly combine both. On the cold and bright first of February I walked to the Island – there is a winter bridge, one of the reasons to choose that island as my site for now – and the decision was easy: start a new practice, a new relationship. What made me consider continuing with the previous practice beyond January was the one-week break in the middle of the month when I visited Örö. And there will be a break in February, too. So combining the two months seemed reasonable. I really missed by balancing practice, though, and the act of holding on to the little pine was not so exciting. Moreover, there are always so many people on the path between the camera and the smaller pine. That said, one person managed to walk between the camera and the other taller pine, too, since there seems to be another path there. I have to accept a lot of humans in these images, I guess.
I made a small test first, to see which point next to the tree would be the best one to balance on.
And I chose the spot closer to the tree even though my arms will stretch through its branches. In the image it makes sense to try to touch them…
So, this will be my tree partner for the coming month. I will add one still-image from each session on the RC-page, as usual, here. It felt good to return to the practice of “becoming tree”, and it was surprisingly easy to do it in the snow. Let’s see how it feels when the weather is less benign…
A week on Örö feels like a good start for the year, and seeing the place with some snow is exciting. I came here in order to perform with a pine next to the guesthouse, as part of the Be-coming Tree event on Saturday 9th January (and celebrate my birthday that way), see here. However, I ended up living in a house in the centre of the island, and decided to “hold hands” with a pine next door as well. I looked around in the vicinity and could not decided, but when I stepped out of the door with my camera, this pine was the first one I saw. I soon discovered it was a twin pine, which was not visible from the porch, but I chose the camera position to highlight that:
This pine tree I will now hold on to daily during the week I am here, and if all goes well I might come back and visit it again for another week later on. The sessions will be documented here. The pine that I will perform with for an hour on Saturday, however, I met already during my stay here in November, and suggested to the organisers based on an image taken back then. Now the pine looks like this:
On a morning walk I happened to cross the winter bridge to Uunisaari and to continue along the jetty to the nearby Liuskasaari or Skifferholmen. There I noticed two small pine trees standing by the path as if waiting to be performed with. Unlike Harakka Island, which is reachable only by boat, Uunisaari is connected with a bridge this time of year, so beginning a practice with these pines would not be hindered by storms or bad weather. So, why not? On New Years Day, first of January I dressed in black, took my camera and tripod and walked over – together with hundreds of other people. On my morning walk I did not realise that this was a favourite weekend walk for a large part of the population of the city. Well, I managed to perform with the smaller pine, trying to “hold hands” with it, with only a few people passing between the camera and the tree. I was so confused and embarrassed by all the people that I did not even check the image, and realized only afterwards that I should perhaps have placed the camera a little further away in order for the human figure not to be so big. But I decided to accept the image and go on from that, only changing the position of my left hand, and wearing gloves and a knit cap the following day. The same traffic continued even then. Obviously this will be a very public practice, but it is a public space, so there is not much I can do about it. Yesterday and today there was snowfall. If the snow stays for a while, I can forget the marks on the ground I carefully chose in order to find the right position for the tripod. Once again this will be an approximation, something only so-so… Anyway, the still images will be documented here
On a frosty morning at the end of November on Örö I decided to spend one more day with a pine, and chose a peculiarly formed pine on the shore near the residency house to spend time with. This time I would sit and write with the pine, while visiting it once every hour from 9 am to 4 pm, a normal workday, but also the time there is sunlight here at this time of the year. I did not count on it suddenly being so cold, so my sessions with the pine were brief. That is ok, since my small notebook does not have many pages left. In any case I decided to try to listen more and write less, and conduct an interview of sorts. I began with a huge question: What is important? and soon came up with the obvious reply from my perspective at that moment: warmth. This was only the beginning, perhaps the day will get warmer and my sensitivity to the pine better.
Two days later, after editing the videos and recording the texts I wrote I have to admit that my sensitivity did not increase that much. Yes, I spent more time listening to the pine, simply sitting there after writing, but I did not really feel any answers or responses to my questions, at least not ones that I could register or understand. Perhaps I did not even expect any responses and therefore could not detect them. The video including all my sitting in the pine amounts to 50 minutes, while a short version, synchronised with a video of equal length with only the pine (the brief ”empty” images after each session) is only 5 minutes and 53 seconds. The ”real” version, the one with the texts that I wrote recorded as a voice-over is 14 minutes. And unlike my first question, the following ones were more mundane, about light and sound and the wind.
The good thing with this day, compared to my previous experiment with hanging in a pine nearby for a day, was the weather. This time the day was not so dark and gloomy, and there were more nuances in the shifts of light. And the day was shorter, too, I did not begin before sunrise and ended right after nightfall, so this was a short working day of eight hours, from nine to four. – All the videos (except the longest one) are available on the RC, here
On Friday the 13th November 2020, the sun rises 8.23 am on Örö in the Finnish archipelago. At 8 am before daybreak, in the dim bluish grey light I am already down by the shore, placing my camera tripod behind a rock, which I checked last night, in order to start my day’s work with one of the pines. To choose the pine was no easy matter, but this big beautiful pine was standing apart and had a perfect little branch to hang from. That is my plan, to simply hang for a moment on the branch, nine times, on the hour until sunset at 4 pm. There is a soft drizzle, and I cover the camera with a plastic bag before returning to the house.
9 am, the rain has stopped; the plastic bag covering the camera is covered in drops. The clouds on the eastern sky are brightened by the sun, here in the west they still look dark and damp. When hanging in the pine I notice the junipers and the rose hips in front of me. They seem to thrive here on the sandy shore. I feel weak, able to hang on the branch only for a few breaths. And the pine seems impersonal, indifferent, unlike some of the other pines I have encountered here.
10 am, the wind from south-east is rising; the changes in light, however, are minuscule. Looks like the day ahead will be grey and uniform – and chilly, + 7 degrees celsius. For November that is warm, of course, and this island is far south from the mainland. This is the only place in the country where you can find Pasque flowers (Pulsatilla vulgaris), which usually thrive much further south. They bloom in early spring, though. Yesterday I saw some searockets (Cakile maritima) in full bloom a little further north on the beach.
11 am, no visible difference; the sky is grey as before. I hear a strange motor sound and see an orange quad pass by on the dirt track further away, an alien creature from another world. This is actually their world, a former military island transformed into a Nature Reserve. The radar tower to the right further up on the shore is still functioning; its red light discernible from afar in the complete darkness at night.
Noon, and all seems to be like before. The only sound is the prevailing hum or noise of the wind in the trees and the sea breaking on the eastern shore. I walk among the shrubs in the sand, stepping on lichen, moss, all kinds of twigs. This beach must be a paradise in summer time; it still is, although I imagine paradise to be a little warmer. It is a huge privilege to be able to spend the day with a pine here, although our actual moments of contact are very brief.
1 pm, and no changes; perhaps the wind is calming a little. I almost missed the correct moment, being absorbed in reading Eduardo Kohn’s anthropology beyond the human, How Forests Think (2013). The book is more about dogs and jaguars and humans than trees, about relationships of predator and prey, although some of the ideas could be extended to concern the vegetal world as well. Nonhuman beings have made and make humans what they are. (p.134) The pine tree was here before me, like the plants were around long before humans.
2 pm, the first drops fell when I returned to the camera, and the soft rain started when I returned to the house, strangely, because the rain was forecasted only for later tonight. Perhaps this is only passing cloud, temporarily darkening the pale grey sky. As if dusk would set in this early; there are still two hours to sunset. The days are short here this time of year; what counts as a day’s work is much less, too. Or, to put it in another way, the evenings are longer. More time to read and write and edit this video, for instance.
3 pm, the rain has stopped; it was only a drizzle, anyway. Returning from the pine I walk along the stony road towards north, feeling the afternoon coming to an end, slowly. Everywhere there are traces of military constructions; the sign boards describing them alternating with the ones pointing at the specific aspects of the nature on the island. Nature conservationist can be as militant as the Defense Forces, but here their presence feels reassuring; the very particular environment is protected at least to some extent. What to do with all the visitors, like me, is another matter. Now there is nobody else, but what about summer time (see visit Örö)?
4 pm, dusk approaching. The sun is supposed to set at 16.05, but no trace of the sun, no streak of light on the horizon to the left, no purple clouds, nothing to indicate sunset. Often the horizon to the left of the pine is flaming in red, today there is nothing but dark clouds. They are amazingly effective in shading the sunlight. My plan was to end at sunset, but since there is still plenty of light, I leave the camera on the shore for one more visit, covered for the raindrops that start falling again.
5 pm, almost dark, for the camera at least. The human eye easily adapts to the twilight, and the sea reflects the light from the sky which is still dark indigo. It is easy to walk on the shore, among the trees it is harder. I wait for the right moment, knowing that I will be barely visible in the darkness. When, writing this, I look out the window, the darkness is already impenetrable. Darkness, a rare luxury in this day and age, available daily for the pines here and for me as their guest, for now.
The videos edited of the material recorded during that day – Day with a Pine (brief) (54 sec), Day with a Pine (3 min 20 sec), and Day with a Pine (long) (11 min 20 sec) – are all available as small files on the RC here.
An exceptional, completely still and sunny day prompted me to try writing with a pine tree I had previously posed with. I was not happy with the first attempt, however, not being discernible enough among the branches, and tried again a second time. Thus, I have two letters that are somewhat similar and slightly different. Perhaps I will abandon my principle of transcribing the trace of the performance, the act of writing, and recording that as a voice-over to add to the video, and edit some form of mixture of the two letters instead, added to the second video. Or, perhaps I use this material to write a more academic style video essay. Here I nevertheless include both texts as rough, uncensored transcripts of my handwritten notes:
Dearest Pine Tree,
Excuse me for bumping into your ”lap” without notice, and coming to you like this, without forewarning. I was so perplexed hearing a motor sound, an airplane or helicopter in this silence that I forgot what I was about to write, so let me start again.
It is a great pleasure and honour to be able to sit on your branch and address you with this letter, simply to be with you on this island, a former military island that has been turned into a national park and opened to the public only five years ago. The island is full of pine trees, both old and young ones, and many of you are bent in strange contortions due to the constant wind. The reason I came to you today is exactly that, the extraordinary situation that there is no wind. It is so quiet that I can hear the buzz from the “radar” tower, not far from here. I have been here only for a week, so I cannot say for sure, but as I hear it is usually windy here, so let us enjoy this moment of stillness as a beautiful exception! I actually visited you last week and even posed for a video camera together with you, because I was so impressed by your place of growth. Half of your roots are cut off and a portion [part] of your trunk rests in mid-air. There is a big hole where sand has been extracted right next to you, to the right from where I sit, although I chose to place the camera in a such a way that your deformations and your precarious position do not show. Why did I do that, actually? Your “bravery” was what caught my attention to begin with. Perhaps as a gesture of respect, I guess. I wanted to show you at your best, not as the vulnerable creature you are, like all of us. – At this point I probably have to explain why I address you formally like this, and in English. This letter is aimed not only for you, but [also] to other humans to hear, or perhaps read as well. And unlike some other letters to trees I have written, this will be a letter pondering on letter writing and especially writing letters to trees, so a “meta-letter” of sorts, probably, at least on some level. I would not like to bother you with ponderings that have no relevance for you if I did not feel that you somehow accept being part of this attempt. With all your experience of winter storms, military assaults and now visiting tourists, lately, you are of course accustomed to human attention. And I do not really demand any response from you, I simply try to articulate my thoughts in your presence, in writing, as clearly as possible, so that you can sense them in your manner, or then my intentions at least, and my respect, if nothing else.
I have been experimenting with various ways of performing and posing with trees and the idea of writing letters to trees, like the one I am writing to you now, is something I have explored only recently. Earlier I wrote small texts on behalf of trees, and spoke them as the trees, as if the trees would speak, hanging some earphones on the branches of those talking trees. But that is a long time ago, and it was not a very satisfying way of performing together. It was more like using the tree as a puppet [in puppet theatre] to hang stories on. Well, what am I doing now, then? I am sitting on you as if on a wooden bench in a park, and writing “stories” again. Well, not exactly. There is a difference in trying to address you, to talk to you or with you, to engage in a communication with you, however clumsy or one-sided that might be, compared to speaking for you or on behalf of you. Speaking for others is ethically challenging, sometimes necessary, but often misguided. Listening might be the best option in many cases, and that is what I have tried to do previously. Or, if not directly listening, then being in the vicinity of, being nearby, sitting with you or some of your relatives, breathing together, growing together, sharing our participation in zoe, in life, and engaging in trans-corporeal exchanges, with all the chemicals and magnetic or other waves and various substances floating between us and through us. That is probably a more reasonable way of trying to perform together, after all, because this letter-writing is strangely one-sided. After all, letters are usually written to people who are not present. But there is an effort of creating an I-You relationship despite the risk of falling back to some kind of romantic notion of “merging with nature”, or projecting human sentiments on trees and other living beings, or even what they call the pathetic fallacy. But, in another way it would be an even more “pathetic” fallacy, I think, to assume that you would not be able to sense my presence in some manner. Ok, I am not suggesting that you can read this letter. Or even read my thoughts, but by at least trying to address you in this way, I feel there is some contact possibility [possibility for contact] opened between us. Rather than thinking of you as the “Other”, something wholly different and unreachable, I prefer to think of you as a relative, a distant one but a relative, nevertheless. And in some sense, we share the same ancestors, I guess. – Now I have used all my time, and more, and have to stop here. I want to thank you for your patience, and friendly, welcoming attitude and I want you to know that I really, really appreciate the possibility to spend time with you here today. Thank you once more, and all the best for the future!
Excuse me for disturbing you this November afternoon and please forgive me for recording this meeting with a video camera. I am very grateful for having the opportunity to spend time with you on this island, which was previously reserved for the military only, and has been transformed into a national park and opened to the public only five years ago. And I am grateful to you for allowing me to sit on your branch and to appearing or performing together with me for this brief moment. I also have to apologize for addressing you in English, which is not my native language, nor your preferred language, I assume. What your preferred language would be I do not even dare guess, something with (volatile) chemicals, perhaps. The reason for this formal address is that I hope this letter to reach other humans and not only you, that is, humans will hear or probably read this letter as an example of my practice of writing letters to trees, and also as a “meta-letter” of sorts, since my aim is to consider this practice in terms of its ethical and artistic implications, at least I will try to do that. Meanwhile, I also hope that these thoughts will somehow reach you, if not through these words, then through my thoughts. And even though you might not be able to read my thoughts in a strict sense, I hope you will be able to sense my intentions, somehow, and to affirm [ascertain] that they are benign and respectful. Anyway, I hope you are well this lovely afternoon, which is truly exceptional by being completely still. I have only spent little more than a week on this island, and so far, the wind has been heavy [strong] day in and day out. You have spent all your life here, so you should know. Many of your relatives are bent in all kinds of strange contortions due to the wind, being broken in storms and then growing from what was left; remarkable bravery, I must say. You too, have a rather precarious position next to the sand [pit], with half of your roots, or what is left of them, right in mid-air. The branches that I sit on have reached far out on the slope to counterbalance that, I suppose. I came here before, last week, as you might remember, and tried to pose with your roots, creating a small video that I call “On the Edge”. But that is another story. My concern now is this act of writing, of “performing writing for camera” on one hand and of addressing you as a tree with a letter on the other. Usually letters are written to those who are absent, not to those present, of course. Somehow it feels easier to address you in writing than through speech, though, probably because formulating or articulating my thoughts into words could make them somehow “clearer” for you to discern, This attempt at addressing you, however, is a result of various attempts at performing with trees, beginning with speaking “as” trees in a series of site-specific monologues called Trees Talk, using mp3 players with brief texts spoken as if by the trees and hanging them on the branches of those trees together with earphones for passers-by to listen to. That made the tree like a puppet to hang stories on, not a very satisfactory solution. By addressing you in writing I am of course also risking a “pathetic fallacy” of sorts, thinking of you as a [kind of] human being. But perhaps that is not so dangerous. As Martin Buber suggested and I-You relationship to other living beings is worth striving for, and as Efraim Kohak has suggested, our manner of speaking matters. – Now I hear some strange sounds, birds… – Nevertheless, it might be that simply spending time together, listening to you rather than addressing you, would be a more appropriate form of conversation. Anyway, my time is up, and I want to thank you for this moment together, for your friendliness, patience and generosity, and wish you all the best for the coming winter!