My Imaginary Artist Residency

On lichens, queerness and making time to draw

I cannot remember the exact moment I fell in love with lichen. I can't even remember when I first started to really notice them. Rather than a moment of discovery and delight, the presence and magnificence of lichens grew slowly in my consciousness, not unlike the slow growth of lichens themselves. Incremental, imperciptible, but nonetheless significant.

I know the shift happened when I found myself living in landscapes that are especially friendly to lichens - first Dartmoor, and now the Bannau Brycheiniog - where I notice them every day. I've come to love them, get excited by them, greet particular communities of them as friends and waymarkers on my familiar walking routes. And they have begun, naturally, to inspire my creativity, from drawing to even knitting.

Lichen Washi tape, available in my shop

“Lichen Fancier” enamel pin, available in my shop

My next knitting design in progress - the Lichen Fancier cardigan

Lichens are weird. My only slight regret about becoming fascinated by them is that it didn't happen earlier in my life. My undergraduate degree was in biology, and lichens were never mentioned. We studied plants and animals; I don't remember covering fungi and I certainly don't recall anything that wasn't...any of the above. At the time I wasn't interested in continuing my scientific education beyond my degree, but perhaps if lichens had found my heart by then, I might have.

I am a queer person; who I am does not quite fit with the generally established order of things. In subtle but significant ways I am other, and in that way I feel like a lichen. Their omission from my formal scientific education feels deeply personal. Lichens are not organisms but communities. Assemblages of beings from entirely different domains of life. They do not belong anywhere we humans try to categorise them - reminding me that it is OK, even wonderful, to exist outside what we thought were the limits, and to reimagine what is even possible.

Side note: if you want to read more on the queerness of lichens, I highly recommend chapter 3 in Merlin Sheldrake’s “Entangled Life”, and David Griffiths’ paper “Queer Theory for Lichens”.

I’ve recently decided to undertake an artist residency exploring the connections between lichens and queerness. In the absence of either an existing residency programme dedicated to this particular niche, or the flexibility in my current life and schedule to allow for travel or escape, I have created one. Finding moments where I can, sneaking them into the cracks of my everyday life just like lichens find a way to thrive even in environments that at first glance seem inhospitable.

With no particular plan in mind, I started crafting myself a syllabus of explorations. I sent notes to myself, scheduled a week in advance so it comes as a surprise. I’ve been reading (and re-reading) books, taking quiet observational walks, and of course drawing.

In my most recent video I shared one particular drawing project that emerged from my residency. One day after a storm I found a fallen twig that was so bountifully covered in lichens that barely any twig could be seen at all. I took it home for further consideration under my magnifying glass, where I discovered even more wonders. The more I look, the more life there is in this tiny landscape.

Without really thinking about it, I sketched out a grid of 100 tiny frames and started drawing, each day filling a frame or two with a new vignette. At first, I imagined this project would take me through several found twigs, but slowly as I filled this page I realised this project was, in fact, to make 100 drawings from this twig alone. I’m now into the 40s, and far from feeling like I’m running out of things to discover. And when I extend this thought – that one twig contains so much life and fascination that I can look at it 100 times and see something new – I suddenly realise that every twig, every rock, every surface where I’ve ever noticed lichen holds the same fascination and potential for discovery. Is there a word for this sense of wonder that simultaneously holds both a slowing down of care and attention to notice the tiniest things, and at the same time sensing the magnitude of the universe? Whatever it is, I’ve found my way accidentally to a drawing practice that alters my awareness, challenges my perspective, and leaves me looking at the world rather differently. In other words, it’s rather queer.

Do I know what I will ‘do’ with these drawings? Do I know what the ultimate ‘outcome’ of this imaginary residency will be? Do I know what I’m ‘working towards’? Every time one of these questions raises it’s head I am delighting in setting it gently aside. For now, I’m letting the lichens lead the way.