Interstice – “a space that intervenes between things, especially between closely spaced things.” And a sometimes tangential blog ‘found’ in the spaces between the main posts at ClimateCultures: further reflections and references, on looking through a narrow gate…
The Miriam-Webster Dictionary defines interstice as “a space that intervenes between things, especially between closely spaced things; a gap or break in something generally continuous; a short space of time between events.”
‘You don’t need to read between the lines to understand the history of interstice; its etymology is plain to see. Interstice derives from the Latin interstitium, which is itself formed from the prefix inter-, meaning “between,” and -stes, meaning “standing.” Interstices are the cracks and crevices of life, and the word is often used for both the literal and figurative gaps of the world. In modern uses, interstice can even refer to gaps in time or to special niches in the larger expanse of something else. Evolutionary biologist Stephen Jay Gould used it, for example, to comment, “Dinosaurs held sway for 100 million years while mammals, all the while, lived as small animals in the interstices of their world.”‘
I first discovered interstices in Robert Frost’s On a Bird Singing in its Sleep:
A bird half wakened in the lunar moon Sang halfway through its little inborn tune. … It could not have come down to us so far, Through the interstices of things ajar, On the long bead chain of repeated birth, To be a bird while we are men on earth, If singing out of sleep and dream that way Had made it much more easily a prey.
Philosopher Gaston Bachelard maybe saw the value of getting into the “space that intervenes between closely spaced things” when he wrote “The minuscule, a narrow gate, opens up an entire world.”*
I’m appropriating interstice here as a sometimes tangential blog ‘found’ in the spaces between the main posts at ClimateCultures: further reflections and references, on looking through a narrow gate…
If, when you’re contributing a blog for ClimateCultures – or commenting on someone else’s – you find your mind moving outside the confines of what you’re saying, into the gaps, save that thought! If it explores a small part of the Anthropocene terrain, it might also have a home here.
* And, on a tangent, Bachelard’s book, The Poetics of Space, is one I owned but gave away before I read it. I’m reminded of this, with a pang of regret, every time I come across a quotation from it, as with the one above. I’ve no idea whether Bachelard was actually referring to interstices, but the ‘narrow gate’ seemed to fit the space…
You can read a review of The Poetics of Space in The Independent, where landscape writer Ken Worpole explains that “Bachelard was a phenomenologist, holding the view that there was a dynamic interplay between an active mind and its surroundings.” In a passage that seems to suggest something for approaches to the Anthropocene, Worpole describes his conversations with architects designing hospices:
“Architects will tell you that designing intimate buildings is much more difficult than erecting monoliths. Those I have talked to in writing a book about the new hospice movement have employed Bachelard’s vocabulary of intimacy; they have described the need to create distinct psychological thresholds between open and closed, inside and outside, arrival and departure … places of contemplation and a gathering-in of memory and self-discovery.”
So, a search to track down source of a random quotation that I’d borrowed for an interstitial blog found a connection to the larger theme of Culturing Climate Change.
Find out more:
Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space (1958, Beacon Press new edition 1992)
Robert Frost, On a Bird Singing in its Sleep and other poems are available at The Hypertext Poems
Our first Members’ Post at ClimateCultures is from Laura Coleman at ONCA, on the two spaces in the world that she thinks about every day.
There are two spaces in the world that I think about every day
The first is a small piece of the Bolivian jungle. I have watched it grow, flood, burn, and grow again. The creatures that live there – rescued, sheltered and cared for by Bolivian and international staff and volunteers – have, over the last ten years, threaded through me, to the point that I dream of them. There is one in particular, a puma. Her name is Wayra, and she is one of my closest friends.
The second space is a building, in Brighton, England. It has four floors, a basement and a cave (tunnel included). It has been a hairdresser’s, a Middle Eastern food store, a mod bar, an Internet café, and an empty shop. Five years ago, it became ONCA. ONCA is an arts and performance venue that I started after coming home from the jungle, having no clue what to do with the stories I found now sitting at the base of my stomach. I didn’t realise that ONCA would be radical, or important. I just wanted to find a way to tell stories like Wayra’s.
Spaces for looking into the change
After five years, ONCA has developed a life of its own. It has become a beautiful venue, providing more support, solace and community than I could ever have imagined. That makes me proud, not proud to have had the idea but proud to have had the opportunity to watch it become what it has. Proud to be part of the community that has shaped it. Because I believe that spaces like ONCA are important. There are a few arts venues that are trying to acknowledge the urgency of the times that we live in, and attempting to provide a framework for creatively engaging with those times, and ONCA is one of them. ONCA was set up to explore and raise awareness of environmental issues through art, but since environmental change and human culture are so inextricably linked, we find ourselves exploring immigration, human health, happiness and economics, just as much as plastic pollution, flooding and species extinction.
I have thought a lot about what arts venues need to, and can, be, since starting ONCA. So much so, I am now researching a PhD on the topic. Although they are worlds apart, quite literally, it is possible to find similarities between spaces like ONCA and spaces like the refuge I go to in Bolivia. One of things that ONCA does so crucially, I think, is embedded within our mission. We do nothing in the building, or outside it, that doesn’t touch on environmental and social urgencies. One of the major barriers to environmental communication is the ease with which we, as a society, look away from things like climate change. ONCA, by its very nature, looks – or at least we try to. We try to practice what Donna Haraway so eloquently calls ‘staying with the trouble’. “It is not possible,” she says, “to stay with the trouble among us without the practice of joy. That the practices of joyful, collective and individual pleasure are essential to the arts of living on a damaged planet.”
As is, simultaneously, grief. This is something that both she, and others like Joanna Macy for example, have argued for a long time. Staying with it then, through joy and grief both. This is what we try to do, at ONCA, through such arts as play, craft, enquiry, DIY ritual, dialogue and creative action.
What I found in the refuge in Bolivia, I believe, was similar. For whatever reason, I ended up spending a lot of my twenties all day, every day, in a very small piece of the Amazon rainforest, with a puma. Making sure that she, above all else, was as happy as she could be. And she wasn’t particularly happy most of the time, if I’m honest. She was scared and confused. Due to her history, she could never be released. She would always live in a cage, and she would always have to be dependant on people like me.
Despite that, she trusted me. She trusted me and even, at times I thought, was happy to have me around. Despite the fact that her life had been irrevocably damaged, when her mother was shot, when her trees were cut down, when her jungle burned, her capacity, I believe, to feel joy, and to bring joy to other lost ones like myself, was staggering. That, in turn, gave me a clue about how necessary it is to grieve for what she, and other creatures like her – humans included – have lost, and are losing every day.
Spaces for the joy and the grief
Spaces where the joy and the grief of this is made real, is made possible, is made communal, are so urgent. I don’t think it matters what kind of space – a little camp in the jungle for lost creatures, a bricks and mortar art gallery in central Brighton, an online blog, a community centre, a sports club, a church. As the earth seems to alter more rapidly each week, this is a cry to hold onto our spaces, and to create new ones, to step through the door, over the gate, across the river, into the screen, through the glitter curtain, and look our ruins honestly in the face.
I am about to go back to Bolivia for half a year. I am balancing the impact of the air miles with my need to see Wayra again. She was three when we met, she is thirteen now and getting older by the day. Before, I thought that being in Bolivia meant leaving ONCA behind. I don’t think this is the case anymore. ONCA and the jungle are two spaces, on opposite sides of the world. Somehow they have become entangled. I am not sure what this means yet, maybe I will never be sure. Maybe I’ll spend the next six months trying to find out.
For more than 20 years, Communidad Inti Wara Yassi in Bolivia has been working for the benefit of wildlife rescued from illegal trafficking, giving disadvantaged youth a sense of purpose through involvement with wildlife care, and educating the Bolivian public to respect wildlife. Find more about CIWY at www.intiwarayassi.org
Climate change could almost define ‘Wicked Problems’. Unlike ordinary, ‘tame’ problems, these have multiple causes, produce a web of effects, entangle themselves in interdependencies, are riddled with complexities, uncertainties and contradictory interpretations and induce a sense of both confusion and urgency.
The serpent that eats itself
Climate change could almost define ‘Wicked Problems’. Unlike ordinary, ‘tame’ problems, these have multiple causes, produce a web of effects, entangle themselves in interdependencies, are riddled with complexities, uncertainties and contradictory interpretations and induce a sense of both confusion and urgency. In Dialogue Mapping, organisational collaborator Jeff Conklin talks about the “pain of fragmentation” caused by working on Wicked Problems “with thinking, tools, and methods that are useful only for simpler (“tame”) problems … a sense of futility of expecting things to be one way and repeatedly banging into a different reality”.
More often than not, ‘tame solutions’ for Wicked Problems reveal or create more problems; their frustration then compounds our urgency, inciting either a stronger desire to act ‘at any cost’ or a lifeless apathy. A self-perpetuating anxiety, climate change’s wickedness is both a call to in/action and the cascade of in/actions’ unintended consequences.
Age of anxiety
Rereading Alan Watts’ 1951 The Wisdom of Insecurity, writer Megan Mayhew Bergman describes how Watts “believed that hyper-rationalising our desires creates a vicious and taxing cycle, a habitual state of tension and abstraction that is actually a mental disorder.” He saw a modern split between mind and body (“a war between … the desire for permanence and the fact of flux”). This produces a cycle of insecurity, which he likened to Ouroboros, the mythical serpent endlessly biting its own tail in a cycle of self-consumption. While it’s human nature to seek an “escape from the reality of the anxiety-producing present,” Bergman suggests that with climate change it’s the future that now seems fearful:
“That sheer inevitability bewilders me … We can no longer afford the luxury of looking away.” – Megan Mayhew Bergman
Psychoanalyst Sally Weintrobe has written about climate change anxiety inhabiting both the ‘reality-based’ and ‘narcissistic’ parts of our self. On one hand (or in one mind?) we face the loss of a reliable future, “our hope that we are generative … and rooted within long time” when “our sense of regularity and continuity as a species [is] threatened at such a basic level”. This depressive anxiety is compounded by our sense of dependence on global leaders and corporations to somehow overcome the short-termism threatening the planetary system. And on the other hand, the actions that we know are needed to reduce these risks threaten the part of our identity that’s tied into lifestyles that are implicated in the problems. Weintrobe suggests that “what we dread giving up is not so much particular material possessions or particular ways of life, but our way of seeing ourselves as special and as entitled, not only to our possessions but to our ‘quick fixes’ to the problems of reality.” The wickedness fills the gap between these minds.
But maybe, in an anxious, subjectivity-riddled world, the idea of wickedness at least offers a way to acknowledge this messiness, open a creative space to view it in and grapple with the extreme risk and uncertain force of the climate change we cannot look away from.
Culture – permission to disagree
In Keywords, cultural academic Raymond Williams introduces ‘Culture’ as “one of the two or three most complicated words in the English language” (and ‘Nature’ as perhaps the most complex word in the language: great news for anyone working on un/common grounds of NatureCulture). A word that’s rooted in colere (Latin: inhabit, cultivate, protect, honour with worship), fractured and evolved into cults, colony and couture, became a synonym for civilised in its antagonism with natural, and offers its own dividing line between ‘high’ and ‘low’ cultures, was destined to do lots of different kinds of work for different people. Culture has its own wickedness, perhaps. Can this help us with wicked climate change?
Climate change constantly draws people into different camps, each arguing passionately for one version and vehemently against the others. Can culture help us, if not to tame the untameable, then at least seize its contrariness, try out its meanings, and rehearse what cohabitation might offer us? We’re more used to diversity in culture and (in more tolerant moments) give ourselves permission to disagree; to incorporate this disagreement into culture itself. Maybe this offers a way to open discussions and imaginations to diversity in ‘climate change’.
In his book Why We Disagree About Climate Change, and in an article of the same name, geographer Mike Hulme examines it as a cultural entity, a kaleidoscopic “idea circulating anxiously in the worlds of domestic politics and international diplomacy… circulating with mobilising force in the worlds of business, of law and of international trade … circulating with potency in the worlds of knowledge and invention, of development and welfare, of religion and ethics and of public celebrity … circulating creatively in the worlds of art, of cinema, of literature, of music and of sport.” The scientific consensus on climate change is powerful and real, but we lack any comparable consensus on its meanings; it has so many that the hope for strong agreement on them is probably illusory.
“We need to understand the creative psychological, spiritual and ethical work that climate change can do and is doing for us. By understanding the ways climate change connects with foundational human instincts of nostalgia, fear, pride and justice we open up a way of resituating culture and the human spirit at the centre of our understanding of climate.” – Mike Hulme
On a parallel thought, literary scholar Benjamin Morgan investigates the origin and uses of the concept of extinction. Like climate change, “extinction has never been a purely scientific concept … [it] first came into being as a problem of human meaning” long before we came to identify our own species as a new driver of extinctions; the discovery of spectacular fossils in the 18th century revealed nature “possessed of the same self-destructive energy as human society.”
Science of all kinds is crucial for better understanding of environmental and climate change and the Anthropocene, but can only offer one kind of necessary enquiry: one of many routes to meaningful action. As part of the living matrix we’re eroding around us, we must also call on other aspects of our identity, other practices as well as science.
Multispecies scholar Deborah Bird Rose speaks of ‘ecological humanities’ as an interdiscipline, attempting to “build dialogical bridges between knowledge systems: between ecological sciences and the humanities, between Western and other knowledge systems.” But what is not needed, she says, is boundary crossings that aim to homogenise knowledge or “suggest that everyone has to do or think everything.”
“Quite the opposite, we acknowledge that there are many abrasive edges between knowledge systems. We believe that rubbing those abrasive edges together enables something new to happen.” – Deborah Bird Rose
Identity and practice
And this is what “culture” means for me when I think about climate change: a web of identities and practices that rub up against each other. It’s a rough sketch, but I start with:
Culture as identity: the different contexts that we inhabit and shape, and which inhabit and shape us; the forces that create, reinforce or challenge our personal and social values; an expression of and comforter for our particular world view.
Culture as practice: the making, sharing and responding to particular creative works and directions; visual, musical, dramatic, poetic, fictional, film and all the other artistic practices – and also research and educational practices, and the practices of collecting, editing and presenting.
Both these aspects of culture suggest that nuance and diversity are key, helping us navigate the complexities, uncertainties and interdependencies of climate change without immediately resorting to ‘tame’ solutions within hard-and-fast borders. As Morgan points out: “Drawing battle-lines is never an exercise in nuance … The avenue into these ethical and political dilemmas [of extinction] is culture, broadly conceived.”
Bergman retells Watts’ account of the response of a Chinese sage to the inevitability of human suffering:
“’How shall we escape the heat?’ the sage is asked. His answer is unsettling: ‘Go right into the middle of the fire.’”
‘Wicked Cultures’ as a means at least of seeing and coming to terms with the dynamics of ‘Wicked Problems’, maybe acknowledging what might be untameable but worth living through and with?
In Parts 2 & 3 of Culturing Climate Change, I look at Living with Uncertainty and Navigating Complexities.
Deborah Rose Bird, The Ecological Humanities, in Manifesto for Living in the Anthropocene, (edited by Katherine Gibson, Deborah Rose Bird and Ruth Fincher) Punctum Books 2015
Alan Watts, The Wisdom of Insecurity: A message for an Age of Anxiety, Penguin Random House 2011 (originally 1951)
Sally Weintrobe, The Difficult Problem of Anxiety in Thinking About Climate Change, in Engaging with Climate Change: Psychoanalytic and Interdisciplinary Perspectives (edited by Sally Weintrobe), Routledge 2013
ClimateCultures is where we connect to explore cultural responses to environmental and climate change issues.
A space for artists, researchers and curators
ClimateCultures is where we connect to explore cultural responses to environmental and climate change issues. We welcome creative minds working in all art forms (writers, visual, audio, performance and other artists), research disciplines (sciences, humanities and social sciences) or curatorial practices (galleries, museums, archives and online).
To share creative conversations
This is a forum to discuss and demonstrate how arts and culture help us to make sense of our changing climate, and the possibilities our imaginative responses can offer.
Where boundaries are porous and fertile
ClimateCultures arises from shared experiences at creative gatherings, where artists and researchers reconnect with issues that flow across and between our different ways of seeing and understanding what the ‘environment’ and ‘climate’ suggest.
It’s an exploration of complex and uncertain times.
The Anthropocene, environmental crises, climate change…
They grab headlines, trigger controversies and discussions and provoke action and reaction, but it sometimes seems we haven’t got very far agreeing what these things are, what they need from us, what we can do. They cut across and complicate environmental and development priorities. Species and habitat loss, water resources, farming, poverty reduction, health, social justice and economic wellbeing all seemingly compete with them for attention, but in reality they’re all interlinked in a web of so-called ‘wicked problems’. We can manage ordinary ‘tame’ problems with conventional approaches, but wicked problems resist solution because of their complex interdependencies, the uncertainties that pervade them and the way limited attempts to tackle one issue cause others to get worse.
ClimateCultures centres ‘Climate Change’ as both the specific focus (the changes to our atmospheric, geological, water and biological systems as a result of increasing global temperatures and greenhouse gases) and as shorthand for this larger complex of wicked problems. A growing awareness of our changing relationships with the rest of nature is captured in suggestions that our species has brought the world into a new phase: the Anthropocene. This emerging truth of the ‘Age of Human’ confronts and tangles with an older truth that the world we’re changing is and always has been more-than-human and beyond our attempts to control it.
Many sites explain the problems or offer straightforward solutions. Rather than straight answers, this is a site for finding ways through the tangle of questions. How do you and other artists, researchers and curators approach climate change; what drives you to create something that touches on it; what inspires particular work; what gets in the way; what would you like to know or learn from others? Answers will emerge from a community of the curious, through guest blogs, questions, discussions and the work you link us to.
Why contribute your thoughts, concerns, ideas? Because we’re all struggling for ways to capture the big issues in our small words, images, sounds and gestures. Because we have different ways of knowing what Climate Change means, and the different frames, filters and lenses we habitually see the world through also shape what’s possible within the Anthropocene. Because we all have work to offer. Because conversation is creative. Because this is an experiment, an enquiry, a joint excursion into things we don’t know.