Phytograms: Rebuilding Human–Plant Affiliations

Cinema

Traditionally, film looks at reality in a singular way. Cinema represents the human eye and appeals to the human brain. The optical system, picture plane and projection speed are chosen in such a way that a near perfect illusion is created that suits us. The standard lens is constructed so that it is able to recreate a perspective similar to ours. The ratio of a film frame is chosen to cover the most important area of our field of vision and the current projection speed of 24 frames per second is selected in such a way that a smooth perception of motion is achieved. This is often described in terms of realism, assuming that our own perception is coinciding with reality. However, it can be easily demonstrated that significant parts of the real environment are left out of this human-centred approach. When looking at the visual perception of animals, it is clear that the human eye is just one variation of many possible points of view. For example, colour perception is species dependent, as described in Unconventional Colour Vision:

Colour vision in humans is ‘middling’ at best, both figuratively and literally in the animal visible spectrum of 300–750 nm. ¹ This comes as a surprise to many of us as we cannot imagine the need to see more colours than the millions we can manage. The fact is that many animals have colour vision that exceeds our red–green–blue (RGB)-based trichromacy. (Marshall and Arikawa, 2014: 1150)

Similar examples can be given for the visual field and the speed of processing visual information. As such, the cinematic system is obviously geared to human usage. In general, directors and cinematographers will not be concerned by such a limitation, on the contrary, this is seen as a productive way to represent reality.

Arguably, such a singular vision isolates us from a possible broader understanding of our environment. By pursuing a constant recreation of our own field of vision, feedback is created, leading toward an acceptance of reality being singular. Technological developments push further towards ‘perfection’, using higher resolution, higher frame rates and immersive projection in order to recreate such a human-centred reality in ever more detail, while potentially blurring the line between the physical and the cinematic world. The singular vision of cinema does not stand on its own but is part of a much wider approach towards advances in science and technology, pursuing improvements singularly from a human-centred perspective. Thus, when talking about ‘singularity’, as opposed to the generally accepted interpretation of the term, an alternative meaning could be singularity as an ‘only human’ version of reality. Pursuing singularity in the disguise of a technological breakthrough might lead us to a reality devoid of nature, trapped in an endless projection of our own impulses, similar to a near perfect cinematic illusion.

A critical reflection on cinematic realism is provided through structural/materialist theory as formulated by Peter Gidal and Malcolm Le Grice, most notably in Gidal’s introductory essay to his Structural Film Anthology (Gidal, 1978). This line of thought finds its origin in the UK and has been adopted by many artist and filmmakers beyond the confines of the UK. While the principal argument was formulated in the 1970s, a discussion regarding its principles is still relevant today. The structural/materialist approach questions the cinematic dispositif, thus its aim is not to create a (near perfect) illusion but instead to create an awareness of film as a system. Through a foregrounding of materiality, the audience is made aware of the actual qualities of the medium such as emulsion, grain, frame-lines, splices, pixels, codecs, frequencies and light-beams. Also, the cinema as a space, the role of the projectionist and the relation between the audience and the screen might become part of the work. As such, structural/materialist film is concerned with a different type of realism, drawing attention to the artificial nature of cinema rather than the production of an illusional reality. The structural/materialist critique is primarily aimed at the monolithic film industry and its striving for narrative continuity and the presumably passive consumption of its products by the audience. By proposing a reflexive methodology, ‘the audience can become active participants in the production of meaning’ (Raban, 2011: 100).

However, this concept does not abandon the previously sketched human-centred form as it refers primarily to the cinematic apparatus, which is designed by and for a human audience. Moreover, structural/materialist film could be seen as a project that is largely aimed at an intellectual understanding of its output. In practice, this can be refuted as many works that are categorized in relation to this line of thought are enjoyed for their experiential qualities. Textures, rhythms, patterns and abstractions can induce subjective experiences that trigger transcendental awareness. As such, this practice is an interesting starting point for thinking about a possible cinema experience beyond the human realm. The aim of such an event would be to share experiences with other species, ideally seeing through different eyes and hearing with different ears. Such an objective is notoriously difficult to achieve as we do not even understand our own mental processes fully.

Other mindsets

A compelling way of thinking about other species’ consciousness is commented on in the renowned essay ‘What is it like to be a bat?’ by Thomas Nagel (1974). The writer rejects the idea that the workings of the mind can be revealed through reductionism and highlights the role of subjective experience. He argues that it is highly likely that conscious experience is a widespread phenomenon among species:

The fact that we cannot expect ever to accommodate in our language a detailed description of Martian or bat phenomenology should not lead us to dismiss as meaningless the claim that bats and Martians have experiences fully comparable in richness of detail to our own. It would be fine if someone were to develop concepts and a theory that enabled us to think about those things; but such an understanding may be permanently denied to us by the limits of our nature. (Nagel, 1974: 440)

However, presenting scientific proof for such a hypothesis is horrendously difficult as subjectivity cannot be measured with any means presently available. Consequently, most scientists will discredit such claims and, contrary to Nagel’s proposition, suggest that humans are highly exceptional. This line of thought can be traced back to Aristotle and Descartes who both argued that humans have an exceptional understanding of the world due to reason and speech. This human exceptionalism leads to a split between us and nature. On the one side, there is nature, unchangeable and essential. On the other side, there is culture, purely human, unlimited and endlessly growing.

In addition to film, photography has also been used to express such an arrangement. Arguably, there is a photographic dispositif, similar to the previously mentioned cinematic dispositif. While the photographic apparatus is designed to depict reality as seen through human eyes, the accuracy and reliability of photography as a tool remains largely unscathed. Thus, photography is widely accepted as a way to observe and represent nature in an accurate and objective way, making it useful as a scientific tool. Relevant examples appear in early photography, as demonstrated by Henry Fox Talbot’s photogenic drawings and Anna Atkins’ cyanotypes. The latter were published in Photographs of British Algae: Cyanotype impressions (Atkins, 1843), the first book illustrated with photographic images, showing plant specimens in astonishing detail. The plants were carefully laid out on photosensitive paper and, while being exposed to the available sunlight, a negative image would appear. Subsequently, the image was fixed in order to maintain the differences in tone. Notably, this practice took place without the need of a darkroom and with ‘DIY’ photographic materials. Both Talbot and Atkins saw themselves as scientists rather than artists. Interestingly, the work of these photographers is now mostly referenced in the light of its poetic quality rather than its scientific accuracy, demonstrating how photography contains a certain unintentional subjectivity.

The artistic potential of Talbot’s technique, referred to currently as a ‘photogram’, gained the attention of a new generation of artists in the 1920s. Among them were the celebrated artists László Moholy-Nagy and Man Ray. According to Moholy-Nagy scholar Oliver AI Botar, the artist was inspired by biocentrism, looking for new ways to integrate science, technology and nature. In Botar’s (2007: 337) words:

It was the seamless connections symbolized by the subtle, light-induced tonal gradations of photograms, the technique taught him by Loheländerin Bertha Gü̈nther using plants plucked on hiking trips, that served as Moholy-Nagy’s model for a new, organic connection between nature and modernity.

Botar argues that Moholy-Nagy was not only interested in the use of organic forms in art, design and architecture but also saw the connection to nature as a central aspect to his utopian aspirations. This observation stands in contrast to most reviews of Moholy-Nagy’s work, placing him firmly within a formalist school. There is no doubt that his photograms have a fascinating quality, combining elements and forms that can be associated with both technology and nature.

Besides Moholy-Nagy, the previously mentioned avant-garde celebrity Man Ray was also experimenting with photograms, using both 16mm motion picture film and photographic paper. Ray referred to his work as ‘rayographs’, renaming the technique after himself. Art historian Noam M Elcott argues convincingly that Ray’s practice should be seen as situated in the darkroom, using the whole room as a ‘camera obscura’ rather than as a ‘cameraless’ practice (Elcott, 2008). As such, Ray’s work can be seen as a reflexive practice, preceding the previously described structural/materialist critique of cinema as an illusionist medium. Thus, the rayograms attempt to push beyond known forms of visual language, confusing and alienating the viewer, while opening up new possibilities at the same time. This notion is particularly present in the opening sequence of Ray’s celebrated short film Le Retour à la Raison (1923) in which rayographic filmstrips display a dazzling motion of shapes produced by salt-and-pepper, tobacco, pins and a spring.

In conclusion, it can be noted that the photogram technique is a versatile instrument to work with both natural and technological elements while staying resistant to what I have called a ‘singular’ form of cinema and photography. As such, photograms might offer further possibilities to explore representation beyond the anthropocentric.

Biosemiotics and indigenous knowledge

The question remains if and how film, photography and sound can be used as tools to represent other ways of seeing, hearing and sensing. Or perhaps, even more radical, inspired by Nagel: can film, photography and sound be used to represent other mindsets? A direct representation of ‘others’ through language certainly seems to be out of bounds as language does not provide a realm that can be shared with non-humans. The renowned linguist Noam Chomsky has articulated this convincingly in his article Human Language and Other Semiotic Systems (Chomsky, 1979). Still, there are many other ways of communication that might be used to bridge the gap between us and other species.

The title of Chomsky’s article implies a way forward; in order to communicate across species it could be productive to look at other semiotic systems. This is exactly what is done by biosemiotics, an area of research that has been increasingly well established in recent decades. The foundational thesis of biosemiotics has been formulated by Thomas Sebeok, an American semiotician who is seen as one of the most prominent theoreticians within the field: ‘life and semiosis are coextensive’ (Kull et al., 2011: 69). This thesis leads to a view of biology beyond the physiological, a biology based on the exchange of information in living systems. Such an inquiry can be described as qualitative rather than quantitative and, as such, causes a shift in biological research. Biosemiotics can help to shed some new light on the ‘hard question of consciousness’.

The Cartesian view on animals is that their responses can be explained as being ‘hardwired’. By taking cues from their environment, sensations are translated in ‘automatic’ behaviour traits. This explanation removes the need for cognition beyond the human. This line of thought is reinforced by behaviourist theory as formulated by the American psychologist BF Skinner and his famous system of rewards and punishments. Animal behaviour is seen as largely based on conditioned responses, lacking any form of intelligence. However, in contemporary ethology, building on the ground-breaking research of the Nobel prize-winning Dutch biologist Nikolaas Tinbergen, animal behaviour is seen as much more complex, influenced by a set of different stimuli and responses that include anticipation, learning and memory.

This shared form of cognition is central to biosemiotic research, succinctly formulated by linguist Donald Favereau:

If biosemiotics has any one single most constructive message to give the mainstream scientific community, surely it is precisely this: a semiotic process is not a ghostly, mental, human thought process. Rather, it is, in the first instance, nothing more nor less mysterious than that natural interface by which an organism actively negotiates the present demands of its internal biological organization with the present demands of the organization of its external surround. (Favereau, 2010: 32)

Many of us are in fact familiar with such a natural interface as a space of negotiation between humans and non-humans. The domestication, taming, breeding and farming of animals and plants requires a form of interspecies communication. Not only is the animal’s or plant’s behaviour shaped according to our needs but also our behaviour is adapted to their (animal or plant) needs accordingly. Such an entanglement of species and histories appears exhaustively in the writing of the influential theorist Donna Haraway (1991, 2016), a line of thought that is often referred to as ‘posthumanism’. Other posthumanist scholars, such as Rosi Braidotti stress the importance of human–animal–plant relationships in their work as well. However, posthumanism is primarily a theoretical approach, heavily relying on narrative tools and difficult to apply in practice. Biosemiotics could be seen as a methodology for an applied form of posthumanism.

This methodology is not only concerned with animal relationships but extends further by looking at information exchanges between plants and even the informational processes that happen on a microscopic level in bacteria and the individual cells of complex organisms. For the scope of this article, the informational processes in plants, or phytosemiotics, are particularly relevant. A pioneer in this field is the German semiotician Martin Krampen (Krampen, 2010: 257–277). At first, this might appear as an eccentric idea as plants are most commonly referred to as non-sensitive creatures. However, such a conclusion might be presumptuous. Analogous to their relationship with animals, humans have domesticated plants for thousands of years, exemplified by species like rice and maize. The story behind the domestication of rice is complex and fascinating. Multi-disciplinary research shows that there is not one domestication event but several (Sweeney and McCouch, 2007). The best-known event occurred in the lower Yangzi river valley in China, but a second event took place in the Niger delta in Africa and provisionally a third on the Australian continent. This final occurrence is only mentioned incidentally in the literature but is convincingly supported by citizen science, documented in detail by Bruce Pascoe in his intriguing book Dark Emu (Pascoe, 2018). The different varieties of rice have different characteristics, demonstrating the ability of the plant to adapt to a variety of climatic and cultural circumstances. Maize has been domesticated only once, an event that can be traced to the Balsas river valley in Mesoamerica. Unravelling its genetic history has been particularly difficult as maize’s wild ancestor has been notoriously difficult to trace (Tian et al., 2009). Both examples demonstrate a close relationship between humans and plants that has received little attention in academic research. Phytosemiotics can help to unravel some of the qualitative aspects of this relationship.

According to available literature (Baluška et al., 2018; Gagliano et al., 2014; Karban, 2008; Krampen, 2010; Segundo-Ortin and Calvo, 2019) plants respond to a variety of different cues, such as moisture, light, gravity, sun direction, barometric pressure, magnetic fields, nutrient gradients, temperature, colour (wavelength), physical contact, fluid flow, electrical current, darkness and the volatile airborne and soluble waterborne chemical signals exchanged within their ecosystem. Furthermore, plants are known to exchange information and nutrients with other species both through the symbiotic association of roots and fungi that is referred to as the mycorrhizal network (Smith and Read, 2009) and through interactive responses between flowers and insects (Veits et al., 2018). This suggests that plant communication is much more complex and advanced than previously assumed. A further unravelling of such a fascinating new area of research will require a multi-disciplinary approach, which could productively include phytosemiotics.

Furthermore, what is often referred to as ‘indigenous knowledge’ might provide relevant information on the topic of interspecies communication beyond human language. In his book How Forests Think (Kohn, 2015) anthropologist Eduardo Kohn investigates how the Runa Indians in Ecuador navigate the rainforest, aided by close observations of the behaviour of animals and their natural surroundings. By showing how certain sounds are significant for both animals and humans, the writer demonstrates how meaning can move in and out of the human domain. According to Kohn, signs cannot be precisely located in sounds, events, words, bodies or minds ‘because they are ongoing relational processes’ (p. 33).

The Runa are highly skilled in understanding these relational processes, exemplified by their skill in catching flying ants who emerge from their nests only once a year within a short time frame. The ants will fly out only when circumstances are optimal, influenced by a range of factors such as fruiting regimes, meteorological conditions and the habitual behaviour of predators like bats and birds. Bats hunt at night and will cease their activity in the early morning, birds take over shortly after sunrise. The ants benefit from the short time slot in between. Kohn concludes that: ‘People attempt to enter some of the logic of the semiotic network that structures ant life’ (p. 80).

The Brazilian anthropologist Eduardo Viveiros de Castro takes up the subject in his book Cannibal Metaphysics (Viveiros de Castro, 2017). He approaches the idea of a shared human/animal realm in broader terms, inquiring into Amerindian shamanism. Instead of a comparative study, Viveiros de Castro attempts to uncover the philosophical building blocks through a perspectivist methodology. He coins the term ‘multinaturalism’ as an analogy to the Western idea of multiculturalism. Instead of looking at others from a standpoint assuming differences in culture, Amerindian shamanism looks at others from a standpoint of differences in ‘nature’. Subsequently, perspectives between humans and animals can be swapped:

In seeing us as nonhumans, animals and spirits regard themselves (their own species) as human: they perceive their food – jaguars see blood as manioc beer, vultures see the worms in rotten meat as grilled fish – their corporeal attributes (coats, feathers, claws, beaks) as finery or cultural instruments, and they organize their social systems in the same way as human institutions, with chiefs, shamans, exogamous moieties and rituals. (p. 57)

The American botanist and ecologist Robin Wall Kimmerer convincingly undertakes a multinatural investigation of plant life in Braiding Sweetgrass (Kimmerer, 2013). Kimmerer introduces us to the lives and ‘teachings’ of a variety of different plant species intimately known by her both as a botanist and a Native American. In her inquiry, she combines classic botanical and ecological research with ancient tribal knowledge. Her connection with the plants is both quantitative and qualitative. This approach allows her to describe a mutualistic relationship in which plants depend on us for their wellbeing as much as we rely on plants. This is poetically demonstrated in the chapter describing the ‘Three Sisters’, an ancient Native American agricultural technique that entails companion planting of maize, squash and beans. This practice is mutually beneficial to the plants and leads to increased yields for their human counterparts. First, maize grows upwards and acts as a support for the beans to follow suit. Squash spreads out in the open space below, covering the ground and protecting the others against invasive species. Besides the elegant distribution of space, nutrients are exchanged in the collective root system of the plants. Only through a close observation of the ‘behaviour’ of the respective plants does such knowledge become available.

All of this only circumvents the hard problem of consciousness, none of the former proves the existence of ‘intelligence’ or ‘cognition’ in animals or plants. But certainly the proposed theory and methodology open up a possible line of inquiry. By looking at the possible overlaps in communication channels between humans and non-humans, we might be able to understand more about the ecosystemic interactions that are vital for our own survival as a species. Besides the scientific and philosophical implications, my main interest is to apply this within artistic practice. In the next part of this article I will focus on this, first describing materials and methods before situating my practice further within the context of the previously described fields of thought and knowledge systems.

Materials and methods

In the second part of this article, I will focus on my practice, in particular a form of image making that I will call phytography; supplementing the photographic techniques that are widely used to make photograms with phytochemical adhesions. I have developed this technique through experimental research focused on the interaction between expired film emulsion and organic substances, driven by the fact that photographic emulsion contains gelatin, an animal product. As such, photographic emulsion already contains a natural element, making it a likely candidate for further interaction with natural processes. Phytograms are created by using the internal chemistry of plants, creating visible chemical traces and marks on the photographic emulsion. This process works both with photographic paper and film, making it possible to create either still or moving images and even optical sound. The technique is based on the similarities between industrial photographic developers and phytochemistry. By combining knowledge from both areas, image making becomes possible. In order to understand how photographic chemistry can interact with phytochemistry, it is useful to look into the underlying materials and reactions more closely.

Many industrial developers are based on two active chemicals: hydroquinone and metol. Both chemicals can be classified as phenols. Phenol is originally an organic compound consisting of a phenyl group and a hydroxy group. When dissolved in water, phenols loose a hydrogen atom, resulting in negative ionization. In standard photographic process, the negative ions react with silverhalides in photographic emulsion that has been previously exposed to light, either with a camera or in the darkroom. This process changes the latent photographic image into a visible photographic image. The phenols that are used in standard photographic processes are normally synthesized in factories. Alternatively, coffee-based developer or caffenol has become increasingly popular. This alternative has been developed by Scott Williams and his photographic chemistry class in search of a formula based on household products. The result is described in an online article published by the Rochester Institute of Technology, Williams’s employer:

Coffee contains just about every type of molecule known to nature, including proteins, lipids and carbohydrates, but that ‘go-juice’ that many of us cannot do without also contains a group of molecules known as phenols. One of these is called caffeic acid. Compare it with the molecule of catechol, an effective photographic developer . . . Coffee contains several other phenols which closely match not only catechol, but also several of the other hydroxy containing developer agents used in photography. Caffeine, a molecule which is larger than a benzene ring . . . also has all of the constituents of an effective developer. (Williams et al., 1995)

The article describes further how this principle can be optimized by adding other household products such as washing soda and potassium hydroxide in order to control the acidity of the solution. This publication has sparked a dedicated movement of photographers and filmmakers who have further developed the formula by sharing and discussing their results on websites such as caffenol.org (Essl, nd). Practitioners advocate their practice by referring to the availability, low price and low toxicity of the used products. Although the formula might have an impact on the contrast and colour of the resulting image, most users aim to produce traditional ‘perfect’ photographic images and do not aspire to change the end result in more significant ways.

During the previously mentioned experimentation phase, in which I used expired 35mm film and organic processes, caffenol served as a developing agent in conjunction with plants, fungi, salt and mud. These experiments mostly resulted in degradations of the emulsion, rendering some fascinating images. I have animated these in my film Wilderness Series (2016), demonstrating how processes that would be normally described as rot or decay can be embraced. Beyond this degradation through organic process, I discovered that I could use plants in a more active way as well, propagating marks on the emulsion rather than brutalizing it. An experiment with Mentha leaves led me to this serendipitous discovery, as shown in Figure 1. Subsequently, I have analysed and refined this effect in more detail, using different plant species, film-stocks, application methods and environmental situations.

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Figure 1.

Karel Doing, Untitled (2015). Phytogram of Mentha leaves on unexposed 35mm film.

Most plants contain polyphenols, thus the results of the Mentha leaves could be repeated with petals or leaves from ordinary plants growing in my direct environment. However, the effect is weak in comparison to industrial products. Through analysing the caffenol formula, I found that, by adding vitamin C, the effect is further enhanced in a process known as superadditivity. Furthermore, the acidity of the solution has to be controlled to keep the reaction going. This can be done by adding washing soda. Humidity, temperature and available light all have a certain effect that can be seen in the end result. Notably, subdued light results in low-contrast but highly detailed images that are strongly influenced by the plants’ internal structure. Exposure to direct sunlight results in high contrast but flatter images. A new series of experiments was set up using readily available plants such as Dandelions. These humble plants are now often classified as weeds, but have been a valued source of nutrition in the past and are also known to have medicinal properties. By exchanging the Mentha leaves with a Dandelion flower, the result shown in Figure 2 was produced.

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Figure 2.

Karel Doing, Untitled (2016). Phytogram of Dandelion flower on unexposed 35mm film.

A further experiment was set up using the leaves of Dandelion plants instead of the flowers. Dandelion leaves contain a significant amount of polyphenols and also have a specific ‘tooth’ shape that repeats itself. This repetition appears not only in a single leaf but reiterates among all the differently sized leaves that can be found in a small patch of unkept lawn. By laying the presoaked leaves carefully along 35mm filmstrips, the repetitive structure of the leaves is transposed. Figure 3 shows a number of filmstrips treated in this manner. When edited together, a spontaneous ‘animation’ takes place. The interaction between the repetitive shape and the frame produces a fluttering motion that is both static and frantic at the same time. The plant’s outward and interior appearance becomes visible, both in the minute detail of the image and the animated motion delivered by the cinematic apparatus.

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Figure 3.

Karel Doing, Dandelion (2018). Phytograms of Dandelion leaves on unexposed 35mm film.

Finally, while participating in the Independent Imaging Retreat in Mount Forest, I worked with plants native to the Wellington North region of Ontario, Canada. I became especially interested in the abundant Milkweed that has a special local and global significance as it is a larval food source for Monarch butterflies, a species that is in decline due to the use of herbicides in modern agriculture. At the farm where the gathering took place, no such chemicals are used. Philip Hoffman, the organizer, supplied me with fresh 16mm film and reversal chemistry which brought me to a different application of the previously described technique. I exposed the film first, making portraits of my fellow participants. Subsequently, I developed and bleached the film and, after bringing the film out of the darkroom into the sunlight, I applied the Milkweed in the extreme harsh sunlight and the unusually hot conditions that were occurring at the time. Milkweed leaves are thick and dense but the circumstances were favourable to relaying a detailed leaf structure nonetheless. The result is an overlap between the filmed image and the patterning and differing intensities resulting from the treatment with phytochemistry. Figure 4 is an example, showing a portrait of Finnish filmmaker Milja Vita in conjunction with a Milkweed phytogram.

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Figure 4.

Karel Doing, Untitled (2018). Phytogram of Milkweed on exposed 16mm film.

Awareness

But what does such an image tell us? I want to propose that the phytogram reveals a state of vegetal ‘being’. This is a bold statement for several reasons, first and foremost, plants are usually denied any form of awareness. Following philosopher Martin Heidegger, who has extensively written about awareness, being-in-the-world is connected to language:

Man shows himself as the entity which talks. This does not signify that the possibility of vocal utterance is peculiar to him, but rather that he is the entity which is such as to discover the world and Dasein itself. (Heidegger, 1962[1927]: 209)

Heidegger even appears to exclude non-Western cultures from his discourse and certainly does not acknowledge such an awareness in animals or plants. Secondly, an image is read as an interpretation, a sign that tells us something about the world within our own framework. In order to reveal vegetal being, we have to be able to break out of this framework. This is certainly not an easy task.

To go back to the phytogram, these images can be seen as a tool that brings us closer to an understanding of the sensation that a plant might have. Plants grow and orient themselves primarily based on light and chemical signals, precisely the tools that are needed to make a phytogram. As such, we might say that the phytogram translates a plant’s experience of the world into an image that is legible for humans: plant sensation captured on film. However, the problem of interpretation is not solved by this proposition. By physically bringing these images into the human world, the translational process is not yet completed. Additional steps have to be taken to make the information intelligible. To solve this problem, animation can help.

Plants are neither static nor mobile. Although a plant is confined to a permanent location, it continuously adapts itself to the available light, water and nutrients by changing shape and direction while quivering in the wind. This vegetal state of being is recreated by feeding a series of phytograms into the cinematic apparatus, where the continuous image is divided up into frames. These frames are brought to life through projection, an animated motion somewhere between static and mobile. No need to bring inert matter to life, animation is immanent here.

To problematize this reading, it is useful to look at animation films that are produced with similar techniques. Most notably the films of Stan Brakhage come to mind, especially his famous film Mothlight (1963). To make this film, the artist attached wings of dead moths to the filmstrip interspersed with translucent leaves and petals. He referred to his method as an inquiry into perception, questioning the fixed perspective that the cinematic system imposes on both cinematographer and viewer. Artist, writer and lecturer Fred Camper analyses Brakhage’s work in a relevant way, not only referring to Mothlight but to his whole oeuvre:

They [the films] argue for a version of consciousness that is at once all-inclusive and self-doubting, that simultaneously acknowledges the pleasures of life and the inevitability of death, and in which the mind never reaches for the certitude of any resting-point, but is instead engaged in an eternal dance. (Camper, 2001/2002: 96)

Such ideas are further elaborated by a number of filmmakers, for example in Thorsten Fleisch’s Blutrausch (1999), Emma Hart’s Skin Film (2005–2007) and Vicky Smith’s Noisy Licking, Dribbling and Spitting (2014). The artists make use of their own bodily residue such as skin, blood and spit, not only revealing the materiality of film but also augmenting one of the main ingredients that is needed to make photographic emulsion; collagen extracted from animal bones, skin and tissues. This practice is discussed in the article ‘Blood, sweat, and tears: Bodily inscriptions in contemporary experimental film’ by film historian Kim Knowles:

The viewer is positioning in some ‘sense’ within the body of the filmmaker, and, crucially, the body of the film. The marks made on the film thus not only testify to the hand of the artist, the trace of a physical connection with the material, but also, more profoundly, they represent a fusion of two organic bodies. (Knowles, 2013: 454)

Phytogram animations contribute to this inquiry by extending the question of perception beyond the human body, incorporating plant bodies in a similar fusion. Not only the artist but also the plant partakes in the making of the film through a physical contact between plant and photographic emulsion. In this process, molecules are exchanged between both entities. A phytogram requires plant agency; thus a glimpse of an extended form of awareness might become palpable.

To achieve the best results, an isolated viewing of a phytogram animation in a standard cinema might not be the most successful. By taking part in the process of making phytogram animations, the entanglement between artist, plant and cinema becomes visible. As the process requires only minimal means and resources, the technique can be shared in almost any location where plants grow nearby. The aim of this practice is to assemble a collective space, both accessible to human and vegetal awareness. I have been extending my phytography practice by organizing workshops, which have been affected by local flora, climate and participants. During these workshops, technique and context are discussed, experiments are set up, images are produced and, finally, results are projected, sometimes with multiple projectors. Besides the already mentioned demonstration in Mount Forest, Canada, two day workshops were organized in collaboration with LUX in London, UK, and Baltic Analog Lab in Riga, Latvia. LUX is situated in a park and also maintains a herbal garden, making it a very suitable place for this activity. Baltic Analog Lab is located in an old workshop adjacent to a courtyard where some weeds grow. Additionally, one of the participants brought a large bouquet of wild flowers and herbs that grow abundantly nearby. More recently, I have received and accepted an invitation from Alchemy Film & Arts to conduct a series of workshops with local community groups of both filmmakers and gardeners. The results of these workshops have been exhibited in the form of an installation entitled Bog Myrtle and Flamethrowers which has been displayed in an abandoned outdoor shop on the local high street. Figure 5 shows a section of a filmstrip that has been produced collaboratively.

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Figure 5.

Karel Doing et al. (2019) Bog Myrtle and Flamethrowers. Phytograms on unexposed 16mm film.

Here we have come full circle, back to the structural–materialist notion of expanding the cinematic apparatus. The participants touch the plants and the film, see the images emerge and share and discuss their results. Filmmaking does not happen elsewhere but in the here and now, aided by the natural environment. Participation flows from the plants to the artists and further to the audience, who in turn might feel encouraged to look differently at their direct surroundings, connecting plant life with cinema culture.

This practice can be seen as a furthering of the ideas proposed by the Brazilian educator Paulo Freire. In his groundbreaking book Pedagogy of the Oppressed (Freire, 2017), his strategy is succinctly described: ‘The role of the problem-posing educator is to create, together with the students, the conditions under which knowledge at the level of the doxa is superseded by true knowledge, at the level of logos’ (p. 54). In the described phytogram workshops, I certainly see my role as a problem-posing educator, not only transferring knowledge about technical matters but also posing a set of questions to be investigated by both myself and the students regarding our relationship to the natural world in general and plants in particular. The extension is that this co-investigation not only takes part on the level of the logos but also on the level of the sēmeîon or sign. Through a close ‘reading’ of the plants, not only their outward appearance but also their chemical and phototrophic properties, as a realization of the plant’s biosemiotic abilities, become tangible. Human and non-human media collide and combine within phytographic practice, opening up a shared space between people and plants. It is important to note that I advocate Robin Wall Kimmerer’s propositions for a ‘Honorable Harvest’, a set of rules based on the principle that we should be aware of the energy (or in scientific language ‘nutrients’) that is contained in other living beings that we harvest and consume. In Kimmerer’s own words:

Collectively, the indigenous canon of principles and practices that govern the exchange of life for life is known as the Honorable Harvest. They are the rules of sorts that govern our taking, shape our relationships with the natural world, and rein in our tendency to consume – that the world might be as rich for the seventh generation as it is for our own. (Kimmerer, 2013: 180)

The plants that are used for the workshop are foraged from abundant gardens, making it possible to promote rather than limit further growth, selectively picking the boldest plants that display themselves as ‘ready mades’ for phytography practice. By using only selected leaves, petals, stems and roots, the plants will sustain their lives. The elements that are selected will wither away after being brought in contact with the photosensitive emulsion but their image will be captured for a prolonged period of time. As such, the entanglement of life and death becomes part of this practice in a quite literal sense, not in a surreptitious, exploitative way but rather as part of a celebration of the cyclical nature of all beings, human and non-human.

The need for plants, as nutrients and producers of oxygen, is universal and understood by all humans. As such, the practice of making phytograms easily crosses borders and unites cultures. During the workshop, stories of food, cooking and tasting spontaneously intermingle with discussions about filmmaking, animation and projection. In this way, this practice crosses several borders and helps us to be aware of our shared origin.

Conclusion

Expressing awareness beyond the human through animation techniques is not an easy task. The cinematic apparatus is shaped by a history that is closely related to enlightenment ideals and methods. Even experimental forms of animation can hardly escape the cinematic dispositif in a way that pertinently extends beyond the human. Possibilities appear in the cracks of the system, the use of bodily residue, organic processes and spontaneous movements. However, audience reception and interpretation might still place such artifacts within a more recognizable framework, denying non human agency to either the machine or the organic materials. Through a focus on the process itself and by creating a space that is shared by humans, plants, film and projection equipment, a more profound acknowledgement of such agency can be achieved. Through ‘close reading’ and ‘close listening’ and a careful registration of the signals that can be perceived, awareness beyond the human might become attainable. Communicating with non-humans takes effort, the message is not shaped for us, we have to decipher it.