New Project means New Notebook.

New Project means New Notebook.

Whenever I’m working on a project, I have a dedicated notebook on the go. I’m not precious about these as artefacts – at the end of each year, I type up and photograph any relevant pages before recycling. The images accompanying this post by @anguscarlyle are all from my 2023 Arctic Auditories notebook.

My notebooks have all kinds of functions. At their most pretentious, there are affinities with what Michael Taussig has to say about the notebook in “I Swear I Saw This: Drawings in Fieldwork Notebooks, Namely My Own” in a quote I’ve used often in class: “the fieldwork diary is built upon a sense of failure—a foreboding sense that the writing is always inadequate to the experience it records. Nevertheless, on rereading by its author, the diary has the potential to bring forth a shadow text that can simulate the experience that gave birth to the diary entry, not only for what is said, but more likely for what is omitted yet exists in gestures between the words. This is what Barthes called the ‘role of the Phantom, of the Shadow’”.

Though Taussig talks of the notebook’s resemblance to “a magical object in a fairytale” and suggests “the point is that a fieldworker’s diary is about experience in a field of strangeness,” I try and keep journals that are more ordinary, their details stretching (with the field itself) to include what happens here, where I live in the UK, as well as what goes on in Tromsø / Romssa and, in parallel, to extend the timeframe from the period away to hours spent preparing and reflecting. Some texts and drawing were made there, away (the two grey mountains were rendered with boot polish in the rain after a hike up a valley, the colours added later in my cabin, the written place names after I’d returned to the UK). Some texts and drawings only appeared here and later (the light blue writing on the page with the leaf include doodles made during a Teams meeting). Going through my photos and deciding which of these to print out and add to the journal can help recirculate memories (though, what was not photographed might struggle to raise a shadow).

-Angus

Different Silences

I am still far from the end of the shelf of contextual reading that I’ve been slowly assembling at ersfjordbotn.wordpress.com but some emerging themes are promising (perhaps that means they reinforce my own prejudices?!).

I’ve noticed several writers describing a condition of ‘silence,’ but a silence that is not resolved as a simple, stable shape nor easily parsed as a positive synonym for tranquillity.

Ann-Helén Laestadius (“Stolen”), Kenneth Steven (“In Search of the Sami”) and Eileen Myles (“Hell: A Libretto”) frame the quiet in high northern latitudes as characteristic and modulated by the weather:

“He heard dogs barking as he passed a few of the houses. Otherwise the quiet was deafening; it was that particular silence that descended when snow blanketed the villages.”

“There wasn’t a sound: it was that snow and ice silence which almost seems bigger than silence itself … A sky so brim-full of starts it was like the smoke of breath, and the stars crackling diamond sharp.”

“You think it is always terribly dark where we are / No it is female, it is young, it is rich / It is old. / We are not frozen, we are not murmuring / Silence, we are guy geyser, we are volcanic / We are old like planet itself; and yes you are right / we are cold, / cold, / cold.”

Silence can also be translated as audible absence. Marla Cone hears the quiet as a reflection of environmental damage “Where are the sea lions, fat and happy, napping on the rocks and barking at their pups? Where are the furry sea otters crunching on urchins?” And Eva Saulitis seems to ratchet their interpretation of quiet as ‘unnatural: “A dream of emptiness, silence … I knew nothing of silence in nature, nothing of the sea, nothing of wilderness, of predators besides raptors and owls.”

Silence can be ominous in its representation – the “it grew deathly quiet” of Vigdis Hiorth or the terrifying “silents” that punctuate the violence in the home depicted in Tanya Tagaq’s astonishing “Split Tooth”. And it can be ominous as a deliberate strategy, with Liisa-Rávná Finbog citing Sámi scholar Rauna Kuokkanen conceptualizing the continued “silencing” of indigenous perspectives as an “epistemic ignorance”.