A Place of Nest

1) What is a Nest?

I would define a nest as a safe but charged space or site of refuge and solace, created from materials that are naturally available.

To the bird? To the alligator? To the bee? To the tech giants? To the other? I’m not so sure, but I hope they would suffice and find common ground in my offering.

What types do you get?

Cup-Shaped Nest
Scrape Nest
Holes and Tunnels
Aquatic Nest
Platform Nest
Domed Nest
Mud Nest
Hanging, Woven & Stitched Nest
Mound Nest
Colonies & Group Nest
Edible Nest

What are their shapes?

Round
Blob-like
Plump
Cup
Cloudy
Cylinder
Flat
Squiggly
Jagged
Spiky
Flamboyant

I have been a captivated by nests, their shapes and their types since I was wee. I have sought the solace of small spaces and their mysterious, whispery charm since I hid in the hedge of my front garden looking at the robins and the blackbirds forage for worms and bits of crisps I’d drop there. I started to become even more fascinated after the very first time I came across an abandoned nest. I felt, held and cherished the delicate work of art found in the playground of Penpont Primary School, behind the porta-cabin where they kept the goal posts, PE equipment and the good Mitre footballs one lunch time. I remember running to my teacher, Mrs Moyes, telling her I found it. She firmly, though kindly, urged me to return it so I would not disturb the Mum or the Dad who might have been off tending to some other important duties. This was my first real reminder to not interfere or wreck something other but to let it be and to respect its place.

This blog is a site for thoughts that concern my research and fascinations I have towards nests as part of the Space, Place and People module of the MA Music and the Environment Course. I will share photographs, poetry, music and text that will help me investigate my line of enquiry: “What is Nesting” In this first post, I will share poetry, text and imagery that asserts my personal definition of the term “nest” and also offer a sense of the direction of travel I may take into the next post.

To begin, let us go digital. The connotations and aesthetic of a '“nest” isn’t necessarily exclusive to the natural world anymore and causes some abrasion with my initial definition. The first offer from internet search engine "Google suggests something rather different:

Google Nest Screenshot.png

(Google/Nest Uk, 2020)

Google’s home communication system allows you to attain information and communicate with others through voice commands and applications across different devices - its presence always front facing and known and to be used and relied upon. This digital embodiment and use of the term to me subverts the very nature of what I think a nest is – a place of nurture, confession, refuge and retreat. A nook of safety and a cranny of warmth. Something built with what is naturally available. It is more and more interesting to me that technology is commodifying the connotations of the nest’s craft to sell a product. I bet a nest builder would not be able to assert the Google Nest as a suitable place to rest, raise young and seek refuge!

Here is a list I made of the materials available for the Google Nest:

Wires
Software
Metals
Plastic
Silicone
Chemical Adhesive
LED lights
Paint
Stickers
Barcodes

There is also the financial embodiment of the term “nest” which generally conveys a stash of money that is safely put aside in case of anything untoward. In contrast to the Google Nest, this is much more of a site of secrecy and security rather than information and communication. Here is a list I made of the materials available for the financial nest:

Digital Bank Account (0’s and 1’s)
Digital Savings Account (0’s and 1’s)
Paper
Fabric
Wooden Box with Lock
Key
Elastic

The craft embodied and employed to make this nest is usually done on a computer.

Next, let’s assert my definition by locating it in the natural world. Most commonly, nests are associated with birds who create a site to safely rear their young. Other animals build nests, such as bees, alligators, squirrels, mice, raccoons and skunks. Here is a list I made of the materials available for the nests of the natural world:

Twigs
Sticks
Fur
Wool
Mud
Leaves
String
Bark
Grass
Roots
Cobwebs
Moss

The craft embodied and employed to make this nest is not done on a computer.

Human artists have often sought to recreate nests with materials similar to this specific list. Andy Goldsworthy’s work is most notable. I uncovered and re-discovered a lot of his creations within his book Wood that denote and connote nests. Here are a few of his pieces that have moved me the most, built from contextually relevant natural materials:

Goldsworthy Nest 1

Goldsworthy Nest 1

Goldsworthy Nest 2

Goldsworthy Nest 2

Finally, I conclude with an autobiographical account. I was reminded of my intrigue towards nesting when speaking with my Mum recently, when recalling our youthful lockdown reminiscent conversations about life 25 years ago. Mum would return nightshift from Ninewells Hospital where she worked on the intensive care wards, before coming home to look after me and my brother who were pre-schoolers as my Dad went to university to study 20th Century History. Mum would invite us down to sleep with her in the morning on the couch as we watched Disney’s Robin Hood on repeat. There was a “cuddly bit” and the “nesty bit” which we would take turns in depending on mood swings, nurture needs or alertness to the video on the tele. Connotations of connection, warmth, home, love and nurture spring to mind when recalling these memories. Choreographic and compositional actions include weaving, layering and compiling. All vital nesting components.

At that age, I often found comfort in sitting in a washing basket in the kitchen when emptied of its load - looking and laughing and thinking and considering. It was my place to ponder and scheme, think and twist and turn. My Dad photographed me in it and my Mum drew a picture. I’ll look further for the photograph, but here is the drawing:

1E27A544-1156-4BF2-B79F-DB9E4FBCF742.JPG

(Scott, E. 1996).

Here is a list I made of the materials my Mum illustrated from of the basket nest:

Human
Flesh
Skin
Hair
Sweat
Saliva
Clothes - Over-Sized Jumper
Plastic
Cheap Wicker
Fingers clinging on

Exploring “what is a nest” has been a good fact finding, list writing exercise. To lead me onto the next phase of my enquiry, I muse on the poet and philosopher David Whyte curious and alluring first stanza of the poem “Coleman’s Bed” which I believe captures my initial definition successfully:

Make a nesting now, a place to which
the birds can come, think of Kevin’s
prayerful palm holding the blackbird’s egg
and be the one, looking out from this place
who warms interior forms into light.
Feel the way the cliff at your back
gives shelter to your outward view,
then bring from those horizons
all discordant elements that seek a home.

(Whyte, D. 2018).

References:

2) Nest Architecture

Having introduced a suitable definition of a nest, offered my understanding of materials utilised through a series of lists and giving way to my autobiographical connection towards my line of enquiry, I thought it would be interesting to examine how nests are constructed and what their job is. In this blog post, I will share some musical and practical experiments I have undertaken as well as review some research I have done that showcases some of the different styles of architecture employed by two birds that have fascinated me.

I walked to my local green space, Queens Park, with a sense of curiosity tingling. I was inspired by Andy Goldsworthy’s land art practice and wanted to devise something of my own that could have a lifespan in the space - becoming a site that I could visit and return to when considering my enquiry. I set an intention to situate myself in a quiet space of the park, out of the way of the majority of the public and proceeded to collect a variety of materials needed to build my own nest. I wanted to engage and invest in this building process, before informing myself with how birds go about this process with a completely physical range of movements. The rule was that I had only 5 minutes to gather materials in the roughly 20mx20m box I framed myself within. I did not want to cause a scene or draw attention to myself.

The following is an image journal of the materials I managed to gather, before then a video of the building experiment itself.

Materials in rows:

IMG_3203.JPG

Materials in Piles:

Materials in a Spectrum:

Materials - Road Markings

Materials - Road Markings

Materials - Horizontal Spectrum

Materials - Horizontal Spectrum

Materials - Piano Roll

Materials - Piano Roll

With these materials available to me, I set about building a nest. I had the idea in mind that I would make a piece of music that was the embodiment of a “gentle, generous fidgety dance” which is the way I would characterise the range of movements of a nest builder:

I devised a compositional idea with collaborators Double Bass player Joe Standley, Cellist Sarah McWhinney, Violinist Gudrun Soley SIgurdardottir and guitarist Kenny Cormack to consolidate the experiment I undertook. I framed this micro-composition as having two parts - collecting and then crafting.

I was now in a suitable post-experimental position to examine how nests are constructed. Humans are unusual among mammals in that we build our houses. We are great builders and tend to admire other animals that build. Most birds are excellent builders and their unique skills generally manifest in the form of a nest. Some nests are works of art, others less gracious. Nowadays, we both use natural materials and other times plastic or other artificial materials that do not occur in nature - similar to the ones I have listed in the previous post. Beavers are the only other mammal that build substantial homes. This learning surprised me, as one would assume that mammals with their seemingly larger brains and advantageous dexterity would be far better suited to go about something so intricate.

Professor Mike Hansell speaks of their prowess in the book Avian Architecture:

A bird’s building equipment is largely just the beak. To build even a simple nest with just
a beak would seem to be a bit like trying to make a ham and cheese sandwich with one
hand behind your back. However, birds have the advantage of very flexible necks and
good vision… the feet of some species are important for scratching and occasionally
for holding materials. More unexpectedly, the rounded belly or breast of a bird is used
to mould the interior shape of the nest.
(Hansell, M. 2011)

Hansell’s factual reminder that the bird’s tools to build are its body and its parts put things into perspective for me radically. It offered a choreographic lens through which I could appreciate the craft even further. This cannot be merely a genetic code that is bestowed upon each bird? They surely cannot just know, you know? The excellent skills of birds in building nests are remarkable in at least three ways:

  1. Choreography.

  2. Form and Context.

  3. The instructions on how to build a nest appear to be genetically encoded.


Hmm. I’m not convinced.

I cannot just know how to play guitar? I cannot just know how to drive a car? These physical skills take practice to be able to perform and artfully master - so why do we discount the the role of learning here? Is this because humans don’t trust and want to qualify the skills of our counterparts? I have been reading a lot of books and research to do with nesting and nesting behaviours which kindly suggest that the act of building a nest is merely genetic code. I wish to dispel that as a myth and give credit to the craft. These Long-tailed tits building their nest prove my desire:

I was happy to land on the following offering from the University of Edinburgh:

If birds built their nests according to a genetic template, you would expect all birds
to build their nests the same way each time. However this was not the case.
Southern Masked Weaver birds displayed strong variations in their approach,
revealing a clear role for experience. Even for birds, practice makes perfect.
(Walsh, P. 2011).

Interestingly, the researchers found that this particular breed of individual birds changed their technique from one nest to the next. They also saw that some birds build their nests from left to right, and others from right to left. As birds gained more experience, they dropped blades of grass less often. I want to share the different architectural practices of the Song Thrush and the Bowerbird, comparing and contrasting their nest shape, type, build quality and job through two original illustrations:

Nest #1 - Song Thrush

Nest #1 - Song Thrush

Nest #2 - Satin Bowerbird

Nest #2 - Satin Bowerbird

In relation to my enquiry, I am left asking the following, open questions:

How do birds know what to do?
How do humans know what to do?

These are questions that I don’t necessarily know the answer to just now, but an offer to myself to keep in mind as I carry on towards a place of safety.

References:

3) A place of Safety

I define “safe” as: a sanctuary, filled with love and familiarity.

Nests are safe places. With that in mind, take a moment to think of a place that you feel safe in. Perhaps you are met with a feeling of security, comfort and little stress. You might experience a sense of calm, an absence of threat or danger leading to the ability to fall into a meditative state of flow. Connotations of warmth, cosiness and intimacy might also follow as you picture this place. Bliss!

Here are my safe places which evoke the above sensations, similar to a nest in nature:

  1. My Gran’s Govan front room with its wall to wall clutter.

  2. My Dad’s pristine clean front passenger seat.

  3. The two old, tattered seats by the fireplace at The Nith Hotel in Glencaple, Dumfries.

  4. My cupboard home studio

My Musical Nest!

My Musical Nest!

Each of these environments share common signifiers and connotations of nurture and care - and maybe, at times, even the luxury of aloneness. Scottish poet-laureate Carol Ann Duffy’s poignant “Safe Sounds” poem offers insight to what one may aurally encounter at a human level:

You like safe sounds:
the dogs lapping at their bowls;
the pop of a cork on a bottle of plonk
as your mother cooks;
the Match of the Day theme tune
and Doctor Who-oo-oo.

Safe sounds:
your name called, two happy syllables
from the bottom to the top of the house;
your daft ring tone; the low gargle
of hot water in bubbles. Half asleep
in the drifting boat of your bed,
you like to hear the big trees
sound like the sea instead.
(Duffy, C. 2017)

In this blog post, I will reveal my thoughts on the safety that nests provide through an original composition inspired by the Long-Tailed Tit’s nesting behaviour from the previous blog post. I will share a choreographic gift I received I will then return to a long time muse of mine, the arctic tern or in Icelandic “Kria” who practice safety with cunning and defensive tenacity.

To begin, I wanted to capture the beauty of the Long Tailed Tit’s practice of nest building that I ended the last post on. I have been letting their careful, generous dance percolate in my mind as I admire this learned behaviour, this artistic craft. To capture the conversations the pair of nest builders we having, I decided to collaborate with Cellist Sarah McWhinney to devise a short piece of music that encapsulates their chatter. This short fragment is a jazzy, mixolydian playful experiment that I see in two distinct parts - making and then consolidating - which is distinctly related to how I observed the birds in practice. In this composition, Sarah’s cello is layered over the sound of my nesting site where my ground level construction was built, as well as a very subtle synth pedal that offers a meditative undertone.

I have long been fascinated by the premise of safety and its choreography. I am inspired to revisit a choreographic practice myself at some point during this research and to see if I am able to find a dance that take place in a sanctuary, filled with love and familiarity. I was recently in conversation with long time collaborator and performance artist Caroline Bowditch, who gifted me a dance following our conversations towards my enquiry. This was her response to my questions to her about her embodiment of safety, flight, warmth and love. She also chose to use my composition “Eg Skil Ekki” as a backing track which was an equally beautiful surprise.

This work encapsulates so much of what I am interested in at the moment - the balance between a delicate act of survival and an artistic gesture, something a bird has to negotiate on a daily basis and arguably, something we humans do too. The orchestration of the elements - how Caroline’s reaching and stretching offered connotations of connection from across the waves was particularly moving. Love and familiarity offered from somewhere unfamiliar reminds me of something most of us go through as we enter this world, nurtured into the colours and vibrations of the natural world from the stillness and sanctuary of the womb. Much like the bird hatching from the egg - from a pitch black familiar sanctuary, to blinding light, poking a cumbersome beak to feel its way for food, desperately and delicately poised.

When I was last in Iceland with my partner in the Autumn of 2019, we encountered Kria at the north coast of the country who were watching over their nestlings. This was my recollection then:

I gave myself the deadline way back then to complete a song idea, though it is very much still coming soon - too afraid to leave the safe space, perhaps and surrender to the colour. This song idea of mine has never quite settled I think, perhaps because it too is protecting something not yet known. I have since returned to the track and have come up with a demo version to try and nurture it in the same way a firm parent might with their timid child at the school gates, gently through the door:

Here are the lyrics:

Call off the search
Pocket the tip
This white sergeant’s
Willow’s been royally stripped
Leaning towards
Those sucked out draws
A cussed thraw
Spun with spiced liquor laws, just because…

Quiet down,
Settle down,
Hands down
Let us hunt now,
We’re at liberty
To shut up the speak
And turn it all towards
Blind discourse which
Fools us all until
Peter blamed Paul
And to all, adieux…
For the favoured few
For the favoured few.
(Maybe, maybe…. Maybe, maybe…)

Fit for a king
How the kría sings
Out on a whim
Stuttering beneath the springs
Hide those fig leaves
So much to see, it’s
Just a sharp sting, breathe
Through delicious streets
Dance into smithereens  

Quiet down,
Settle down,
Hands down
Let us hunt now,
We’re at liberty
To shut up the speak
And turn it all towards
Blind discourse which
Fools us all until
Peter blamed Paul
And to all, adieux…
For the favoured few
For the favoured few.

Tiny ghost in the wind
To glide through the spin,
Those mediocre things.
Tiny glimmer in the wind,
Prickly needles sticky pins
Those darn right nasty things

Maybe Maybe
Maybe Maybe
Mayday Mayday,
Mayday mayday
Maybe Maybe…

This song is inspired by anxiety and the constant front of aggression the bird has to dawn to justify its existence. Many birds exhibit aggressive behaviours intended to drive a potential predator from the location of the nest or chicks. In speaking to my partner’s Dad, Siggi, he tells me that aggressive nest defence is most common when the defending individuals pose a threat or nuisance to predators, typically because of a large body size, shared defence between two parents, or cooperation among nearby individuals. Kría is known for her nest defence, an important behavioural adaptation to reduce the probability of nest predation. Kría exhibits aggressive behaviours intended to drive potential predators from the location of the nest or chicks like swooping, diving, screeching and pecking. What I do find extremely interesting is that since this defence strategy is so powerful and well rehearsed, Kría does not only protect her own nest but also chicks of other species who nest near her.

We often hide something precious to keep it safe. I like to think my song demo embodies the concept of safety well. Though, when I return to it, I will consider embodying a more “Safe but Charged” atmosphere timbrally and structurally. It needs some more breathing space and some more danger to make a memorable mark on the listener. The end is a mystery and I like where it may go. I think of the wonderful piece “The Outer Banks” by The Album Leaf. The track consistently finds it feet following the one-layer-at-a-time instructions, this time beginning with a Rhodes looped motif in A Major. This track quickly becomes the most chaotic and dangerous embodiment which is an exciting moment in the album. It starts to convey a sense of intensity, particularly as the track reaches its critical mass in the mix. We have nowhere to hide.

I want to invoke that sense in this piece when I return to develop it. William Wordsworth’s seminal poem “The Sparrow’s Nest” continues this idea of the “safe but charged” energy, this time in relation to the sensibilities of the essential elements of humanity through encountering a sacred space, a nesting site, with his sister Dorothy. At first, the charged sense:

She looked at it and seemed to fear it;
Dreading, tho' wishing, to be near it.
(Wordsworth, W. 1807)

I can literally feel the nervousness about disrupting the delicate site in these lines. Later in the text, Wordsworth is crediting his sister’s ability to connect him to the qualities of vision, humility and sensibility (‘delicate fears’). These are all key components that can be instilled from the confines of a nest, where we yearn and glean from our older, wiser mentors about the world we are taking part in. For Wordsworth, it seems like those three traits are important for a stimulating and fulfilling existence. He took the nest from his memory of discovering a nest in the garden and by writing about it, placed it into the present - much like I did in the very first blog post about my juvenile encounter with the nest behind the porta-cabin. It is an optimistic act: the nest, an abiding place which can recover and restore some of the wonders and curiosities of the past. But I cannot rejoice in this romantic place for long - all fairytales come to an end. I had to look upwards, from this close internal focus, away from my feet.

One last look down.

One last look down.

As I walk away from the nest for the second time, I pay attention to a John O’Donohue blessing I found called “For Longing” to mark the beginnings of my next steps:

May you have the courage to listen to the voice of desire
That disturbs you when you have settled for something safe.
May you have the wisdom to enter generously into your own unease
To discover the new direction your longing wants you to take.
(O’Donohue, J. 2008)

References:

4) A place of Danger

A list of danger:

A disturbance.
A fight.
Arguments.
Harassment.
Agression.
Broken.
Kria.
Smash.
Bash.
Crash.
Rip.
Tear.
Tears.
That’s not fair!
Fears.
Blood.
Cancer.
Mutation.
Bruise.
Gash.
Stench.
Abject.
Mould.
Black.
Plume.
Dead.
Reek.
Parasites.
Snap.
A heavy fine.
The witching hour.
The devil on your shoulder.

Upon returning to my nesting site this week, I was met by the inevitable. A site disturbed:

There was of course no question that this moment was coming though I was met by sadness and disappointment. I was also met by the Darwinian truism that only the fortunate make it. I chose to give everything that I held about this place away to mask the upset. This concept informed a new song idea which for now, I name simply as “danger.” Following this song, I will share text, poetry and even Alfred Hitchcock’s “The Birds” as a reflection on all of the dangers that have a habit of “spitting out darker ink.”

When considering danger I am drawn to reflecting on its opposite, safety, and the connections between the two. When constructing my nest I referred to in my first blog post, I looked for a safe place away from pedestrians and business - attempting to stay away from outside forces that could pose danger to this delicate construction of safety. It was my fear of it being damaged or destroyed that directed my attention to a secluded place, hoping it would protect the nest in my absence. I came across the poem Ponderable, which speaks beautifully of the danger in leaving a nest and speaks of this interconnectedness between danger and safety:

A squirrel left the nest,
early this winter morning,
and as it climbed down the tree
its front paws outreached
as if feeling the air
to chart the way 
toward the ground
as it has a thousand times
before today.

The squirrel’s eyes search
above, around, and down
watchful for predators
and dangers lurking everywhere,
though it can’t see the hawk
a quarter mile away 
that is watching its every move
toward a fallen walnut.

Departing the nest
Is not an option,
though how and where
to go demands care,
and even when caution
is in the wind, dangers remain
unseen and unheard
until the first grasp and last gasp.
(George, J. 2020).

‘Departing the nest is not an option, though how and where to go demands care’ - is such a beautiful description of finding balance between safety and danger, constantly in flux and continuously in motion as I have reflected on in previous posts. We are continuously coming up against risky or dangerous decisions and events in our everyday and yet it is through those encounters we find what we consider to be safe. The line ‘dangers remain unseen and unheard until the first grasp and last gasp’ feels particularly connected to my list of danger and its unpredictable nature - almost everything on my list refers to the unexpected. I am interested in how safety feels so much more constructed, whilst I connect danger with the quick and unforeseen. The construction of my nest demanded a slow, considerate and delicate process whilst the destruction of it was most likely rapid and random. It is therefore interesting connecting that process with this idea of the construction of safety and the unpredictability of danger. When looking into this in more depth I came across a list on how to cope with fear, which is interesting when considering how danger often comes out of nowhere: 

5 ways to cope with fear: 

  1. Pay attention

  2. Give fear a shape

  3. Focus on your present reality

  4. Balance the negative with the positive

  5. Get help

    (Promises Behavioural Health, 2020).

You can only prepare for so much. This is good in some situations when coming up against danger but in other situations you simply cannot prepare for it. A bird may be vigilant and strategic with its nest building, defence strategies and protection and yet - a stormy day can sweep everything away.

Finally, I conclude that danger is directly connected to what we value the most; in a bird’s case the danger lies in the predator destroying their place of safety and therefore risking lives and future prospects, which is what the bird values the most. When I consider what danger means to me, I reflect on what I hold closely, what I place value on and what matters the most, or as beautifully described in an article on how to cope with fear:

Underlying our fear of danger is our love for life, our desire to stay here on Earth, to
protect our own safety and that of our loved ones.
(Mohr, T. 2019).

I wrote another song as a reflection on these ideas in this personal sense. Guard Dog is a song that is about trying to overcome a sudden bout of anxiety in a social situation - a danger of our modern times. I liked the idea of anxieties being like a Guard Dog, which over time you subconsciously train when to “attack” you when you’re in certain situations or places… I leave this song my departing dangerous thought, which is a little less imposing than the first track I shared in this post.

Alfred Hitchcock reminds us, albeit in the context of a psychological horror film, of how dangerous birds can be in the cult classic “The Birds.” The crows in this film display a similar “attack being the best form of defence” tactic on the people throughout and I thought of this when considering my list. Let us consider the action in the film clip below - to hit out rather than consolidate, in a desperate attempt to remain.

Flight and other active coping behaviours are responses to proximate threat, whereas passive coping strategies, such as freezing and stillness, are whats known as ‘conditioned responses’ to dangerous scenarios. These two strategies have distinct and successive roles, and are controlled by the environment and probability of success - whether or not there is a route of escape! Steimer continues this thought in his paper “The biology of fear - and anxiety-related behaviours:”

Thus, when an animal faces a predator, freezing is preferentially activated
when the source of known danger is still far away. When danger gets
closer, and the stimulus passes through some critical “psychometric”
distance, it becomes a true unconditional stimulus and a flight pattern is
activated.
(Steimer, T. 2002).

As I returned to my nest I was faced with a site of destruction, which spoke of my absence on the site and the presence of something else - a dog, a human or perhaps the wind. This disruption was unexpected but perhaps a part of the process, as I now reflect on my initial enquiry and desire to construct my nest.

References:

5) Ghosts

What haunts my enquiry?

So what is haunting my enquiry? Perhaps it is that the only nests that I have observed in reality and not on a screen have been abandoned or left - uninhabited and not needed just now. The seasons have not been kind to my enquiry just now, I may argue. Autumn is the season of movement and come the end of it, everything is stripped bare. My penultimate blog post explores the darker aspects that are inextricably linked to my enquiry. Nesting is warm, safe and spaces for love. Nests are masterfully built. Humans can and do embody and employ a lot of the connotations brought about from the birds’ craft. But I cannot overlook that often these are sites of tragedy, pain, miscarriage, neglect, disease, discomfort and ultimately, death. In this post, I will introduce some images of dead nests, before then welcoming in an original composition inspired by the music of Brian Eno, before returning to the dangers birds are subject to.

I have been listening to the music of Brian Eno - in particular his album “Ambient 4.” This is an album which mutates in a thick, gloopy directions through a very warm and stormy tropical landscape. Each track takes flight (or burrows deeply) to the sounds of nature, concrete textures or simple instrumentation of electric instruments that are all treated to such an extent that they are completely unrecognisable. It may evoke a sense of music at times, but it really is one of the first and very best examples of true sound design. The piece that haunted me the most in this track is called “The Lost Day.”

Inspired by the warm, thick dissonant, discordant synth drone that underpins Eno’s “The Lost Day” I composed a new piece called “A Place for Ghosts” as a haunting offering to offset my line of enquiry. Eno adds layers of natural sounds, long synthetic shimmers, jangling cowbells deeply reverberated and aching drones which connote a sense of mystery, despair and trepidation. It is completely unnerving and as if you have indeed stepped through into a much less kinder site. There is a storminess and gloominess cast in this work through the long brass like cries, as if there are tiny memories of something hopeful that cannot be recalled. As always, Eno’s masterful EQ is at play here, enabling him to reach emotive plains. Robert Hansen recognises this feat in his review on the site Sonic Cathedral:

it’s simply one of the greatest examples of EQ as an instrument and the much hallowed
talk from the man himself as “the studio as an instrument”, which he took as an
influence from and openly acknowledged Teo Macero’s work with Miles Davis.
(Hansen, R. 2020).

Inspired by the music of Eno and the images of the ghostly, spectre-like abandoned nests caught in the empty branches of the empty trees, I set about composing my own piece of music as a sonic reminder of the many ghosts I hurried by. My palette of sounds included Col Legno strings, a Melodica trying to offer some kind of advice to the listener as they made their way through this haunted site, as well as long brass drones inspired by Eno.

Being completely alone is a haunting prospect and one that to me is the site of great trauma. I am met with this prospect when thinking about my hometown of Dumfries and how it is often described as a ghost town. With its silent streets, derelict buildings, and remnants of homes and workplaces, Dumfries offer a haunting view into the lives of once thriving communities. It connotes the absence of presence.

This term is something that David Whyte defines so curiously:

is the harvest of presence, the evanescent moment of seeing or hearing on the
outside what already lives far inside us; the eyes, the ears or the imagination
suddenly become a bridge between the here and the there, between then and
now, between the inside and the outside; beauty is the conversation between
what we think is happening outside in the world and what is just about to occur
far inside.
(Whyte, D. 2015).

Abandoning the literal and musing on the deeper, metaphorical guise Whyte alludes to - ‘the bridge between here and there’ - fascinates me. The Celts believed in the power of animal worship as they regarded them as the souls of the departed. They believed birds represented liberation for humans because of their ability to take flight high up in the heavens. This is what I attempted to embody in my piece “A Place for Ghosts” towards the end - a heavenward journey towards freedom with the string chords daintily ascending. Garth Clifford continues this perspective in his article ‘Bird Symbolism and Meaning’:

Based on the type of animal, Celtics drew parallels with the transformation
and life of the departed. Birds were considered the reincarnations of the
most pious and highly respected individuals. A bird symbol stands for
transcendence and freedom in Celtic. This naturally led to them believing
that the birds act as a moderator between the divine and mortals. This is
what drives their beliefs extended to birds bringing them prophecies and
messages of guidance from the One that is all-seeing.
(Clifford, G. 2020).

I like the tangible idea of invisible presence from a departed physical being and the weight it can pour into our souls, causing all sorts of physical effects. The nest that I built in Queens Park held my presence in its construction - it was me in it. When I encountered its destroyed version, I met with the echoes of my presence changed and the presence of another, only visible in this new form. Moments of seismic upheaval can result in the following:

Put us at ease
Make us weep
Make us laugh
Make us double take
Make us shiver
Make us walk a little faster
Make us drive a little slower
Give us permission to take a moment
Make our brows furrow
Make us go for it
Make us, us.
Listen
Hear
Guide
Console
Soothe
Hold and be held by invisible presence

In some ways, this is exactly the practice Crows embody when one of their colony dies. The family gather around the body to hold what is colloquially known as ‘a funeral’ where the birds communicate to one another about the dangers that resulted in the departed physical being. Birds too, I would suggest, are influenced by this weight. It is not just us humans who are awarded this luxury.

References:

6) What is the Best Nest?

A Best Nest Manifesto:

The best nest is always moving.
The best nest is never completely still.
The best nest is safe but charged.
The best nest is built from love.
The best nest houses firm generosity.
The best nest does a brief, elegant job.
The best nest celebrates the role of learning.
The best nest is where it is all allowed.
This nest is beauty.

Beauty invites tragedy, welcoming its energy as part of the necessary whole. This defiant act, to bring in the potential of an over-charged foreign entity into a safe site, which gives way to the Celtic notion of hospitality which has been a main stay of mine since I was wee. Welcome the stranger, make a friend. My conclusions towards my enquiry “What is Nesting” land at this reflective point where I connect some reflections towards my enquiry to the manifesto above. I am immediately drawn to my autobiography and when thinking of a musical connections towards beauty, I think of The Sailors Bonnet by The Gloaming:

I have always loved this song and have never really been able to articulate it until over the last few months. We are welcomed into a very timorous, generous space with achingly beautiful playing - playful, youthful and torturously painful in equal measure. My Aunt Gwen’s death in 2002 was the first time I learned about Martin Hayes generosity and gentle presence and every time I listen I am back on Tyron Doon watching a transformation from visible form into invisible presence - Gwen’s ashes becoming something new. This context of course provided me with an entry point to the reflective, deep power of this music and how it can illuminate what it means to be alive. Nesting is alertness and aliveness. It is an attempt to make a meeting place for safety and danger - potential grounds for beauty to behold.

In the Gloaming 2 documentary, fiddler Coaime passionately and romantically offers up this very result of this music on the listener, suggesting “it is the way it makes you feel, it opens up your heart when you listen to it. It’s like someone reaching in and twisting a tap open.” Musically, there are lots moments where The Gloaming twist open the emotional tap, relying on suspended chords on the piano in many songs and sensitive dynamics. There’s a clear care towards each songs journey, with each instrumental layer seeping on top of the other gently, which evokes a nostalgia and vulnerability. The use of space and minimalism naturally summons the romance and passion recognised within this diaspora. Song 44, a poem set to music which is the very first track on their debut album, sets the scene with an exposed vocal sung in medieval Gaelic. Eventually as Hickling puts it in his Guardian article, it becomes swathed in unearthly, droning fiddles, harp-like guitar and abstract washes of jazz piano. It sounds closer to a piece of contemporary chamber music than a traditional tune, though the players improvise freely. I think the gentle meandering nature of these arrangements also contribute to The Gloaming’s romantic sensibility. Melodically this is greatly exemplified in Hayes’ violin playing, which includes careful and deliberate slides up to notes, and sometimes the flattening of a note to give an almost blues effect.

The offer I make to myself to continue my journey with this enquiry is to encapsulate that into an arrangement. I gift my future self this first fragment which was composed in two sittings at the piano in the living room and recorded on the third in one take first thing in the morning. I decided to strip back the recording process here and capture this piano piece on my phone, fully embracing the timbral, percussive qualities that the dishes from the sink that my partner Gudrun is busy washing in the next room offer. They are sonic splashes, found sounds which do sometimes feel like they interrupt the flow of the piece but they give it life and colour majestically. It roots my place, as a music maker in a busy urban environment, focusing in on the introspective which we can only really do so much of - we are always brought back into the moment through the vibrations of the now and the other dances that are happening in the same space.

Components of this song to watch out for when dissecting:

Gudrun saying “bye” right at the start
Chromatic melodic passages
Double decker buses droning by outside if you listen closely
Dangerous dynamics
Fast arpeggiated broken chords
Octaves
Smash
Water Splash
Plates clattering
Creaking of the sustain pedal
A really obvious mistake just before the piano fades out

I will continue to look for the dance in this song. For now, here is the first warm up experiment with Jack, Jess, Fiona and I as part of a Paragon dance workshop called M3 (Make Music Move):

I love the idea of Blaise Pascal that, in difficult times, you should always keep something beautiful in your heart. Perhaps, as a poet said, it is beauty that will save us in the end. John O’Donohoe carries this perspective forward in a lot of his poems and text. He had a lifelong fascination with the inner landscape of our lives and with what he called “the invisible world” that is constantly intertwining what we can know and see. In a podcast with The On Being Podcast in 2005, O’Donohue explains:

One of the huge confusions of our times is to mistake glamour for beauty…
there is an uncanny symmetry between the way you are inward with yourself
and the way you are outward… there is an evacuation of interiority going on
in our times and we need to draw back inside ourselves and we will find
immense resources in there.
(O’Donohue, 2005).

We live in a culture which is image obsessed. Nesting, to me, is about learning the art of inwardness and making a safe but charged space for this to manifest. O’Donohue calls this “the pedagogy of interiority.” What can I learn from my former, youthful desire to nest in the basket as I move forward now? What site can I claim as my new nest to go about engaging with O’Donohue’s pedagogical offering? Nesting is about awakening the inner conversations and making an acceptance. Nesting is to give way to beauty. We all surrender to this at birth, squirming with desire and hunger for survival. My explorations of nests is becoming a meditation on the components that are common to us all, through the lens of beauty. Maybe my next steps are towards a project about beauty, using the nest as an apt aesthetic ground to build my own safe but charged creative response. It is not the beauty of the product but the process of making that beholds beauty in a nest.

As a final offer, I muse on Mary Oliver’s reflective poem “To be human is to sing your own song.” To me, this work offers so much wisdom and tenderness, so much resistance and surrender simultaneously, so much awareness that in the second half of our lives there is more room for grace within ourselves and those we love than we ever imagined. I anticipate this journey as I carry on into the new.

TO BE HUMAN IS TO SING YOUR OWN SONG

24 Years Later…

24 Years Later…

Everything I can think of that my parents
thought or did I don’t think and I don’t do.
I opened windows, they shut them. I pulled
open the curtains, they shut them. If you
get my drift. Of course there were some
similarities – they wanted to be happy
and the weren’t. I wanted to be Shelley and I
wasn’t. I don’t mean I didn’t have to avoid
imitation, the gloom was pretty heavy. But
then, for me, there was the forest, where
they didn’t exist. And the fields. Where I
learned about birds and other sweet tidbits
of existence. The song sparrow, for example.

In the song sparrow’s nest the nestlings,
those who would sing eventually, must listen
careful to the father bird as he sings
and make their own song in imitation of his.
I don’t know if any other bird does this (in
nature’s way has to do this). But I know a
child doesn’t have to. Doesn’t have to.
Doesn’t have to. And I didn’t.

References:

7) Nest Building Playlist

Here are a list of songs that I have been listening to as part of my enquiry!

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