Spending time alone, learning the ways of the land, and exploring the notion of 'slowness'
It’s six o clock in the morning, I write beside candlelight, with Gregory Alan Isakov’s melancholic tunes setting the tone, and the infrequent crow of the rooster beckoning the morning.
The bird orchestra has just begun and outside my window I observe as dawn slowly makes her arrival. Yesterday marked a week that I’ve been on these lands here just Southeast of Marrakech.
My days have been rather ritualistic and redundant; finding the rhythms that feel nurturing and gentle while swimming in the spaciousness of time. Let me fill you in sweet friend: I am here on a permaculture farm as an Artist in Residence; delving into my photographic practice more deeply centring on stories of this land. I have this month to reside, learn, explore and create among the herds of donkeys, groves of olive and lemon trees and circles and rows of vegetable crops. Accepting a generous invitation for the land to guide my practice.
These loamy soils are bursting at the seams with life in every little nook the eyes gaze. An oasis teeming with birds, bees, olive, palm, citrus, and pomegranate trees, rescue animals, native flora, and an abundance of vegetables and fruits. It’s an indulgent sensorial experience existing within the borders of this farm. From the moment I step out my bedroom I am gifted with a whiff of rosemary, gently kissed by citrus aroma while tip toe’ing beneath orange trees, taken on a musical journey through the orchestra of birdsong, and visually stimulated by the endless colours and textures that coat the land.
This last week was carved out for intentionally observing and existing on the land without any creative outcome or practice. My camera has collected dust, rather ironic for the fact that I’m here for my photographic practice. For the creative process, I marked my first bit of time here to have the land become familiar with my presence, and vice versa, for me to get to know this land. I have spent my days treading lightly barefoot through the vegetable gardens, kneeling curiously and humbly at the diverse varieties, sitting by the horse paddocks in quiet communion, recognizing the layers of birdsong, and being enamoured by the intricate workings of this ecosystem. I am merely a visitor in this exquisite dance.
I romanticize slowness, and the concept of living in deep slowness on a farm for a month with no other task than to explore creativity sounded idyllic on paper. But alas, it has been ever-revealing and deeply humbling. Along with melting into rest, I have felt a discomfort I did not foresee and it’s been beautifully teaching to sit in and learn from. Other than the small crew of five others (ceramists) who live alongside me whom I mostly only see in the evenings, the better half of my days are spent in my own quiet company. This stretch of time has been the longest I have been alone in a long time. Although my current situation is more-than-ideal, I have been affirmed in my longing for community and connection, and the deeply held value this is in my life.
I am surrounded by endless life, but in this week I have felt a little lonely and isolated from those I love, and sticky in the luxury of endless time. An immense privilege to say this; and I do so with acknowledgement. Perhaps I have been realizing that our romanticization of slowness and ‘doing nothing’ goes against our very human nature. I deeply believe, generally we must learn how to slow our pace; but how we do so matters. In this time of nothingness, I have been reflecting on how as humans, we are meant to be ‘doing things’. I am so programmed for productivity, that a week of surrendering to ‘nothing’ was uncomfortable. I have danced between allowing my notions of ‘uselessness’ to seep in, to embracing the idea that my existence here is enough. I am delighting in feeling these different sensations. But all to say, I have yearned to make, tend to land, build, and be more viscerally connected to these soils. Our ancestors were ‘busy’ people. From harvesting and hunting, to gathering wild foods and building the fire they were to be cooked on, to homemaking and gathering in circles. A ‘busyness’ that was land and communally based. I have been craving this version of ‘slowness’ and re-wilding. We learn together, in shared company and collaborative exploration.
On this thought, I have noticed my heart swell most around the hours of dinner time here. When the farm goers and artists crawl out of their individual rhythms to convene in the clay built walls of the kitchen. Together, each night we alchemize a collective meal; while sharing in conversation and laughter. Dinner is followed by lingering with tea cups in hand.
As an artist, I find most inspiration from those I am around; their stories and their relationships with the natural world.
Written on March 12, 2025.
