GMU:Re-enchanting the field/Öykü Türkan: Difference between revisions

Latest revision as of 13:08, 17 July 2025

Post-Human Pastoralism

(Afterland fragments from Ida-Viru)

Here is Ida-Viru,

a place not made to be seen,

but to hold what’s left.

A lake that shouldn’t be a lake,

an engineered stillness.

A basin designed to settle,

but nothing truly settles.

I walked here once.

Mud pulled at my shoes.

Footprints filled with water.

This water carries what oil shale leaves behind:

calcium oxide, sulphates, silica dust, aluminium, iron oxides.

Can I swim in this water?

What does alum do to my skin?

A brief evidence of a body passing through.

Even still water remembers movement.

Even waste listens, holds a rhythm.

Time moves differently here.

Slower, maybe.

As if the land itself asked for silence.

I stood still long enough to listen.

To wonder –

Who once labored here,

and is no longer?

The lake holds more than minerals.

It holds life, and death, and memory.

Bodies that bent.

Dreams built on wages,

then broken by exposure.

Those who worked here

spoke a language now made foreign,

carried histories of distant lands,

and vanished borders.

The shadow of a fallen empire.

This isn’t a place where nature returns

because it never fully left.

It only adapted,

took on new shapes,

learned to grow sideways.

This land is not ruined.

Not restored.

It is something else,

an afterland?

A man-made mountain,

a man-made lake,

a beach of accidental origin.

This is what a post-human pastoral might feel like:

Not untouched,

but touched too many times.

Can we build a landscape

without meaning to?

Can we scar the earth

into the illusion of beauty?

And if we do,

will we remember

what was sacrificed here?

The hands that labored,

lungs burned by dust,

the days folded into silence.

Not everything left behind is waste.

Some things remain

to hold the memory.

Are we willing to hear it?

@@ Line 1: / Line 1: @@
-'''How Long to Fill It Up? How Long to Empty?'''
+'''Post-Human Pastoralism'''
-''(An exploration on borders, time, and queer ecologies)''
+''(Afterland fragments from Ida-Viru)''
-The Narva River draws a line. People are stopped, while birds keep flying, the wind moves, and seeds scatter across.
-I begin walking, not with the flow, but against it. Moving upstream becomes a way of thinking about time. Scoop water into a vessel, carry it, and pour it back in - a small loop. Not to change the river, but to listen to it. To sense how it holds, but also leaks.
+Here is Ida-Viru,
-This land has been filled before - with machines, noise, and smoke. And then emptied - of labour, people, and meaning.
+a place not made to be seen,
-This is not just about a place. It is about the systems we build to separate, control, and claim. And what happens when those systems collapse - when rivers keep flowing, and orchids bloom where no one is looking.
+but to hold what’s left.
-+
-'''Background Idea'''
+A lake that shouldn’t be a lake,
-The Narva River draws a sharp line between Estonia and Russia, both geographic and political. While it physically separates two countries, it also connects histories, ecologies, and lives that continue to flow across it in quiet ways. I will walk along the Estonian side, aware of the other shore - visible, close, yet unreachable to me.
+an engineered stillness.
-The surrounding landscape carries the weight of past industries, Soviet occupation, and ecological extraction. The ash mountains stand as monumental scars. But beyond these large-scale histories, I’m drawn to subtler traces: textures, rhythms, and small presences that resist erasure.
+A basin designed to settle,
-I am interested in how the idea of a border is felt along the river, not just as a line of separation, but as something more fluid.
+but nothing truly settles.
-'''Work Description'''
-During my time in Narva, I will walk along the river, observing, listening, and collecting impressions. Rather than following a strict concept, I want the work to emerge gradually, shaped by what the site offers and withholds. The outcome will be a video work that reflects these slow encounters.
+I walked here once.
-The project title, ''How Long to Fill It Up? How Long to Empty?'', is loosely inspired by a line from Klaus Rinke, who often used water as both material and metaphor for time. The title refers to a physical gesture I will repeat - scooping water from the river, carrying it, and pouring it back - but it also echoes broader cycles of accumulation and disappearance. How long does it take to fill a landscape with meaning, people, or industry? And how quickly can it be emptied?
+Mud pulled at my shoes.
-As part of the process, I also hope to connect with people living near the border. I may ask someone who regularly crosses - for work, family, or necessity - to carry a small object from one side to the other: a plant, a stone. These will not be symbolic acts, but real exchanges. They reflect on what moves, what is held, and what leaks across borders - much like the river itself.
+Footprints filled with water.
+This water carries what oil shale leaves behind:
+calcium oxide, sulphates, silica dust, aluminium, iron oxides.
+Can I swim in this water?
+What does alum do to my skin?
+A brief evidence of a body passing through.
+Even still water remembers movement.
+Even waste listens, holds a rhythm.
+'''Time moves differently here.'''
+'''Slower, maybe.'''
+As if the land itself asked for silence.
+I stood still long enough to listen.
+To wonder –
+Who once labored here,
+and is no longer?
+The lake holds more than minerals.
+It holds life, and death, and memory.
+Bodies that bent.
+Dreams built on wages,
+then broken by exposure.
+Those who worked here
+spoke a language now made foreign,
+carried histories of distant lands,
+and vanished borders.
+The shadow of a fallen empire.
+'''This isn’t a place where nature returns'''
+'''because it never fully left.'''
+It only adapted,
+took on new shapes,
+learned to grow sideways.
+This land is not ruined.
+Not restored.
+It is something else,
+'''''an afterland?'''''
+A man-made mountain,
+a man-made lake,
+a beach of accidental origin.
+This is what a post-human pastoral might feel like:
+'''Not untouched,'''
+'''but touched too many times.'''
+Can we build a landscape
+without meaning to?
+'''Can we scar the earth'''
+'''into the illusion of beauty?'''
+And if we do,
+will we remember
+what was sacrificed here?
+The hands that labored,
+lungs burned by dust,
+the days folded into silence.
+Not everything left behind is waste.
+Some things remain
+to hold the memory.
+'''Are we willing to hear it?'''