A person sitting in a camping chair in a field with their green tent in the distance to the left at dusk

Enter the Equinox

Enter the Equinox, super/collider at Harwes Farm CIC, In-Situ. Images: Sam Pickett.

On my arrival at Harwes Farm I was met by a blast of fresh air and uninterrupted views of the open moors. I had climbed the steep track, negotiating cattle and a fugitive hare to attend the overnight event Enter the Equinox, the first of a new art and ecology partnership between In-Situ and Harwes Farm CIC, devised through a longterm dialogue between Sophie Mahon and Gill and Andy Taylor respectively. The programme included the option to camp at the farm and participate in two immersive astronomy and microscope workshops delivered by guest artists Melanie King and Louise Beer of super/collider, an independent science, culture and creativity agency.

Harwes Farm’s concept is a rare one. A wild haven for human and the more-than-human, they remove obstacles by providing practical items such as tents and waterproof clothing, emotional and spiritual support when needed and democratic access to an uncultivated space where the earth is free to be itself. Their pairing with In-Situ is a symbiotic union with an arts organisation who have been addressing environmental issues as part of their mission since the partnership between Kerry Morrison, William Titley and Paul Hartley formed in 2012. Over time they have become an integral part of the social and cultural landscape in the Pendle area and, although Morrison and Titley are no longer formally involved, the partnership with Harwes Farm extends both Morrison’s environmentalist legacy and their on-going commitment to facilitating local access to the Pendle landscape and making a positive difference for society and the environment through art.

A wooden fence and metal gate with the hand written sign 'Harwes Farm CIC Allotment'
Enter the Equinox, super/collider at Harwes Farm CIC, In-Situ. Images: Sam Pickett.

In the adjoining field Gill Taylor was busy demonstrating how to erect a tent and, despite the laughter and strong winds, soon succeeded in helping those who had opted to camp set up seven tents. After unpacking and introductions we were encouraged to explore the grounds, make a cup of tea or go and meet the rescued sheep, geese and chickens that were scattered about the grounds. There was a high level of anticipation, children and adults equally exhilarated at the prospect of spending a blowy night in a tent on top of a hill. Far from the backdrop of everyday life, we had only the whir of the turbines to interrupt our dreams.        

As darkness descended, we gathered in the field for an introduction to the night sky by super/collider. They spoke of the importance of being able to see the stars in order to gain a sense of deep time and how light pollution is preventing us from fully appreciating our place in the cosmos. We considered the evolution of the human eye over millions of years, enabling us to look up and see the sunlight reflected on the moon and how that light touches the back of our retina in a reciprocal tactile exchange. As a group we were encouraged to share previous night sky memories. Some people spoke of seeing the rings of Saturn, the Milky Way, a lunar eclipse or turning a corner and being confronted by a sky full of stars shining so brightly they remained etched as a memory.

The combination of science and art generates a potent form of learning – facts springing to life in the artists’ hands. Super/collider’s description of the long-term effects of sky glow – that eighty percent of the global population is affected by light pollution, which clouds our ability to see the stars as our ancestors once saw them – provoked a profound sense of collective loss. Louise Beer of super/collider writes of this loss in her book, Dark Skies: ‘the radiant stars can help us to understand the miraculous nature of not only our lives, but the lives of each plant or animal that has come before us. I created a sound piece… that sonically explores the depth of remorse I feel for the non-human animals whose short life-spans we are making ever more difficult without consideration of their right to experience life in the universe.’

As the moon arced across the sky, we moved into the cabin, an outdoor classroom, to view the moon through a telescope and print a lunar polaroid using a portable printer and macro images of the moon supplied by super/collider. People spoke of the serenity of the moon and the reassurance of its presence seen from a window, the fear of exploitation of its resources from companies who plan to launch probes over the next few years and its super-natural connections to werewolves and witchcraft. The references to myth and folklore and their deeper significance as metaphors for metamorphosis and transformation posed an interesting juxtaposition, in a studio surrounded by scientific instruments, between our perceived cultural sophistication and a deeper archaic attraction to mystery, underlining the allure of the ‘wild’ both real and in our imagination. Just as our wildlife cannot thrive in an overly cultivated landscape, similarly our sense of wonder withers when confined to an overly rationalistic, hyper-technological way of life separated from the rural. Transitioning from animal to human form under a full moon is a common theme in folklore. One particular legend features a female seal, or selkie, who comes ashore at night to transform into a human. Enthralled, a farmer steals her skin in order to entrap her but forced to remain on dry land in un-natural conditions she quickly begins to dry out, coming close to death before her skin is returned to her and she escapes. It’s a tale that’s easy to reimagine as a contemporary metaphor, to feel that our skin – our inherently animal-bodied nature – is now largely confined to a domesticated interior and is ‘drying out,’ or diminishing along with access to a truly wild environment, due to agricultural cultivation and sprawling urbanisation.

A group of seven people in dark outdoors clothes with wellies and raincoats walking away up a gravelly path in a field
Enter the Equinox, super/collider at Harwes Farm CIC, In-Situ. Images: Sam Pickett.

The rest of the evening was spent watching the clouds scud across the moon’s surface on a laptop screen connected to a telescope, which required adjusting the angle of the telescope regularly, every minute or so, to keep pace with the earth’s orbit. As the temperature lowered further, we gathered in the field around the glowing embers of the fire pit and I stared up at the night sky with a renewed sense of awe at the vastness of space above our heads. One by one, we made our way to our tents. Eventually voices dropped and we zipped up for the night. I lay there for a while listening to the wind tug at the canvas and thinking about the earth revolving, the transitory nature of matter and the illusion of a permanence we unconsciously presume is present throughout our day to day lives.

The following morning, we woke up to mist and drizzle. After breakfast and hot drinks in the studio we were each supplied with a microscopic lens in order to shift our view from the cosmic to the microscopic during a ‘silent walk.’ Wearing boots and waterproofs we set off in procession following a meandering path through natural woodland. Passing beneath ancient oaks, rowan, elder, holly, pine, larch and tuning into the intricate multisensory details contained within the landscape, we noticed the sound of gentle rain falling on the tree canopy, bird song, gunshots from a nearby shooting range, the smell of the peaty earth released by crushed leaves, the softness of moss and festoons of cobwebs decorated with Lancashire mizzle. We discovered, through our lenses and reflected within each droplet, a universe as vast and complex as the cosmos above us. Silence invited new ways of being present within the landscape and being open to its gifts: a breath of wind, a shaft of sunlight, blood-red berries and in my pocket, nettle seeds, a goose feather and a thistle head. Afterwards we stood and talked about the peacefulness we experienced, that it felt like a rare escape from the demands of everyday life. We made excuses for why we don’t do it more often. Walking back to the cabin, we slipped back into easy conversation and the physical universe passed us by unnoticed once more.

Twenty-five participants attended Enter the Equinox and of the sixteen who chose to stay overnight, most were local families who had never camped before. There were various reasons for this but most cited lack of resources. They came because it provided the opportunity to do something, and be somewhere out of the ordinary – to momentarily alter their circumstance. Finding ourselves exposed to the elements in a field on the cusp of the autumn equinox evoked a ritualistic sense of coming together as humans have done for millennia. We shared silences and moments of awe, conversation and marshmallows as we stood around the firepit and were altered by the experience in myriad ways. I left the hill feeling empowered by my involvement and with a deeper understanding of the interrelatedness of all living species. The initial event offered many insights, emphasising the value in gaining new perspectives, in practising ritual and preserving magic in order to water the radicles of our imaginations and, situated as we now are in an era of unprecedented environmental change, in acquiring new skills to foster resilience and take action. Shifting our gaze and shape-shifting, zooming in and zooming out, simultaneously rooting down into the earth and reaching up towards the sky. According to the Natural History Museum most of the elements of our bodies were formed in stars over the course of billions of years so, as Jeanette Winterson suggests in her revision of the Greek myth of Atlas: your first parent was a star.

Digging deeper, I find the etymology of the word ‘myriad’ has its roots in the Ancient Greek word myrias meaning ten thousand, a number used in Taoist mythology to convey the interconnectedness of universal matter and described in the opening lines of David Hinton’s book Hunger Mountain: A Field Guide to Mind and Landscape: ‘I to we, we to earth, earth to planets and stars, countless stars more themselves mirrored in the eye for a moment then vanishing there.’

Enter the Equinox was organised by In Situ at Harwes Farm CIC in Colne, 14 and 15 September 2024          

Sam Pickett is a visual artist based in Lancaster. 

This article is supported by In-Situ.

Published 16.10.2024 by Jazmine Linklater in Reviews

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