Extract from article by Jessie Bond, published on the RCA website.

MRes RCA introduces students to practice-led interdisciplinary and experimental research processes, helping them position their research within social, historical, cultural and theoretical discourses. For Lucy Sabin, who is on the MRes RCA: Communication Design Pathway, this has resulted in a project that unifies scientific and artistic points of view.

Lucy’s thesis proposes innovative approaches to cartography that move away from land-based maps to focus instead on human relationships with the air and its variations over space and time. She calls this multidisciplinary field of knowledge ‘atmospheric cartography’, and defines atmosphere as both meteorological and emotional.

Coming to study MRes RCA, changed Lucy’s perspective, as she had previously studied an undergraduate degree in French, Spanish and Philosophy. The increased emphasis on visual communication and creativity at the RCA is something she has benefited from: ‘it’s amazing to be able to present my work, which is very philosophical, in the context of professional-level exhibitions held here at the RCA.’

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CONTINUE READING

First published in The Polyphony, hosted by the Institute for Medical Humanities at Durham University.

We have a first breath and a last breath. When a newborn baby inflates her lungs for the first time, this moment signals the beginning of a life-long relationship with air. The sudden rush of air flooding into her body leaves a trace of residual air. From then on, she is engaged in regulating a flow of air between inside and outside her body. Most of the time this regulation is involuntary and unconscious.

Breathing is an intra-action in air. We humans do not live in water, nor fire, nor earth. We live in air. We are immersed in the stuff. It is our only habitable element. This simple yet profound observation was made by French philosopher Luce Irigaray. She criticised Martin Heidegger’s metaphysics which conflated solidity with existence without taking air into account (1983). Of course, air is the very precondition for our existence in the first place. There is no being-in-the-world, to quote Heidegger, without air recycling through our bodies (Dreyfus 1990). We may as well speak of being-in-air.  

The title of Irigaray’s book L’oubli de l’air chez Martin Heidegger has been translated into English as The forgetting of air […] (1999). While it is correct to translate ‘oubli’ as ‘forgetting’, the French word can also signify ‘oblivion’. While ‘forgetting’ could be described as a slippage of consciousness that happens from time to time, ‘oblivion’ denotes a state of total unawareness towards surroundings. It is a complete disconnect.

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CONTINUE READING

Sabin, L. (2019). Breathing and Nothingness. The Polyphony [online]. Available at: https://thepolyphony.org/2019/09/12/breathing-and-nothingness/. Accessed: ___.

Part of Pow! Interdisciplinary Collisions symposium at the Royal College of Art, 12th September 2019.

Airspaces – atmospheres – can be weathered and differentiated according to air’s ‘breathability’, which is a possible translation of Luce Irigaray’s ‘valeur respirable’ – literally ‘breathable value’ (1983, 13). Breathability refers to how healthy or not air is to breathe. Often the term ‘quality’ – as in ‘air quality’ – is used to express the same idea. Yet I argue that ‘quality’ in this context acts as a euphemism to gloss over the lived and breathed effects of air pollution. There are three geopolitical points to raise here.   

First, qualifications of the breathability of air are being made at a time when human lungs are constantly exposed to the material flows of transport, industry and other polluting activities. At the time of writing this talk, nine out of ten people worldwide are inhaling polluted air (WHO). So the inevitable ‘acceleration of urban development’ has already changed the ‘aerial and atmospheric matter within which urban inhabitants must live’, writes Human Geographer Peter Adey (2013, 299). Human activity is the main influencer of climate and environment. This is the defining condition of the Anthropocene, our current geological era. Air quality indices, therefore, tend to start from a context of accepting that most of us are always already exposed to airborne contamination. In short, inhaling polluted air is normalised.

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CONTINUE READING

Sabin, L. (2019). Breathability: A Geopolitical Migraine. Pow! Interdisciplinary Collisions. Royal College of Art, London. Thursday 11th September 2019.

Featured Image: Nazneen Ayubb-Wood.

The time has arrived to finalise plans for ‘making research public’ at the end-of-year exhibition. I will display my thesis (online version in my portfolio) alongside an interactive installation:

Visitors will be able to sit on a park bench with a plaque reading ‘in memory of air’. I wish to represent the public or shared nature of atmosphere as well as the art of pausing to notice. They will listen to a continuous recording of natural breathing, to which their own rhythm of inhales and exhales will necessarily respond.

The install will appear in a room with other incredible works by Communication postgraduate students who are investigating niches like smell and painting, shadow and cinema, memes and culture.

Oh yes, and I’m presenting Atmospheric Cartography at 1.10 pm during the day-long Symposium on Thursday 12th (e-vite below). Artist Nils Norman will be there to respond to our work!!!

Please RSVP if you would like to join any of the week’s events.

MRes RCA Final Show

General exhibition 9th-12th September, all day 10-6

POW! Symposium on interdisciplinary ‘collisions’, Thursday 12th, 10-6

*Private view* on Thursday 12th, 6-8 pm

All at RCA, Kensington, SW7 2EU

E-vite by Pham Thuy Duong (Elly) in After Effects.

Now more than ever, it feels important to ‘go public’ and see how peers receive my research before it is formalised in a written thesis. And so I attended a day workshop run by Architecture students at the RCA: ‘Feeling Planning’.

How do we feel in urban space? How can intimate sensations, emotions and feelings come into discourses around planning for urban futures? Contesting the rational, colonial and gendered history of urban planning and planning law, students from the Master of Research in Architecture at the Royal College of Art invite participation in this colloquium workshop on ‘Feeling Planning’.

Our venue: The Workshop, Lambeth.

In the morning, a multidisciplinary group of postgraduate researchers joined together to give five-minute presentations of their works-in-progress. My presentation was a guided meditation with conscious breathing, using our bodies as a tool to connect with the space in a more nuanced way.

I noticed more similarities than differences between our approaches. For example, we all used mapping to conceptually or visually demonstrate how urban spaces change across spacetimes while drawing attention to interlaced stories of inequality.

All of us at the event were curious about urban planning’s effects on identity and mental health. Nick Bell, a PhD candidate in the RCA’s School of Communication, asked us all a question, which I think revealed the theme of the day. He asked us all to think about what a salutogenic approach to planning would look like (supporting and enhancing human health), as opposed to a pathogenic approach (addressing poor health when it arises).

In the same vein, I wondered what a salutogenic approach to atmosphere would look like… 

Through group discussions following the presentations and around the tea urn, we shared references and tips. Among my copious notes, I have prompts to look up ‘mindful design’ and ‘urban design for mental health’.

Mirrors for sky-gazing. By MRes Architecture students, RCA.

In the afternoon, we went for a short walk through Old Paradise Gardens. The facilitators had fabricated these ingenious mirrors that fit around the nose, below the eyes, so that we could walk while seeing an alternative perspective: the sky between the buildings.

Aesthetically, the experience reminded me of a method for mapping atmosphere that one participant came up with in a recent workshop: to film the sky and a shadow at the same time.

Aerial installation at Room to Breathe with visitors’ stories written on folded paper.

Room to Breathe introduction.

Room to Breathe installation.

Installation about memories and memes of cuisine.

After the colloquium, I visited an exhibition at the Migration Museum, serendipitously also located in The Workshop. ‘Room to Breathe’ explores intimate, domestic stories from ‘generations of new arrivals to Britain’. I emailed the curators to ask why they chose such a title; I can imagine why but I think their answer will be even more interesting.

The dictionary definition for breathing space or breathing room is: ‘a period of rest in order to increase strength or give you more time to think about what to do next’.

My chalk graffiti in Old Paradise Gardens. Part of Feeling Planning.

The word ‘archive’ may conjure up images of yellowing documents collecting dust or avenues of shelves and filing cabinets. While many archives do take this rather tame shape and form, others defy the stereotype. 

After exploring several different workshops and public engagement formats, I have identified this optimal approach to carry forward. Atmosphere Mapping is an ideation workshop which aims to develop alternative processes for engaging with fluctuations in our airy environs over space and time. The half-day session comprises three parts: a lecture, prototyping, and a presentation/discussion. 

The lecture provides a critical understanding of atmosphere. The latter is of course meteorological, constantly fluctuating with material flows influenced by human activity indistinguishable from the weather patterns of a changing climate. It is also aesthetic and emotionally-charged. As our medium for living, atmosphere is an opportunity for engineering cleanliness and protection as well as socioeconomic inequity and uninhabitable spacetimes.

In the lecture, I showcase existing techniques for sensing and recording atmosphere, where sciences and arts intermingle. An example from my own practice of mapping atmosphere is biomonitoring with lichens. I emphasise that cartography is about making choices of what to represent and how; it is, therefore, a ‘world-making’ project of political significance.

After the lecture, participants have a set amount of time, usually 90 minutes, to ideate and prototype their own process of mapping an aspect of the atmosphere they inhabit which is significant to them. So far, I have completed the workshop with MA Sustainable Design students at Brighton University and with fellow MRes Communication Design students.

Ideation taking place. Atmosphere Mapping at the RCA.

Beyond art and design courses, I can envisage adapted versions of the workshop taking place in shared spaces such as offices, schools, and neighbourhoods. The main benefit of the Atmosphere Mapping, in terms of participant experience and research value, is the opportunity and creative means to articulate ambient conditions which are otherwise taken for granted, despite negative effects on wellbeing. A straightforward example is noise pollution, but there are countless others.

Participants at Brighton University worked in groups to present ways of sensing and recording noise pollution’s effect on stress levels (there was a building site nearby). They also established a ‘creative climate’ index based on criteria for optimum studio conditions. At the RCA, participants worked individually and came up with more introspective methods, such as simultaneously filming the sky and a shadow to show the correlation in a rather poetic way (see video above).

After both workshops a sense of calm was remarked upon. The atmosphere reminded me of teaching yoga, when practitioners experience an afterglow following sustained conscious breathing.

Lungs and Landscapes was the least structured workshop I have taught so far, which seems fitting when your subject of study is something so elusive and literally airy as atmosphere.

What happened this morning can be described as a walking and breathing workshop with the RCA’s Expedition Society. I was asked to collaborate with the Society for Mental Health Awareness Week.

Our focus on atmosphere attuned us to Prana – that’s universal shared energy in yogic philosophy. We acknowledged that breathing isn’t just a human activity; parks themselves are sometimes described as the ‘lungs’ of a city.

For a little while, we sat to breathe consciously together in a dappled glade, inhaling the oxygen generated by the giant trees… I think that this interlude of pranayama (control/extension of life force) heightened our responsiveness to atmospheric connections.

Here are some of my memories:

• small seeds floating in the air
• bright colours accentuated by clear skies
• sound of willow leaves in the air like swishy wind chimes
• ripples across a pond where air breaks and texturises the surface of water
• the glare of the sun on one of the first ‘hot’ days of the year
• feeling the relative coolness of the shade on my bare arms

Contemplating a cloud.

Archives of Curiosity is a book written by researchers in the School of Communication (myself included) who have conducted field research in an archive.

My chapter is about biosensing atmosphere with lichen as a method for material engagement with atmospheric pollution, and how it changes over time. Specifically, I embarked on field research in the Natural History Museum’s herbarium, to see how ecosystems have responded to changes in atmospheres across the UK since the Clean Air Act in 1956. I was lucky to interview a Botanist who has worked at the Museum for the last half-century.

Our proud team of writers.

Photos: The talented Thuy Duong Pham (Elly).

This is a draft excerpt from a chapter for a forthcoming anthology we are publishing at the RCA: Archives of Curiosity.

In first person

It’s a coastal path. I walk alone with Scarborough behind me. Land juts up from the sea. Turbulent air rushes between sea and land, whistling past my frozen ears. Landscapes unfold after each crest in the path. Salty breezes play with my hair. In each valley, I find shelter from the elements, weaving my way through patchwork thicket. Sweet earthy aromas and the sound of rushing water fade in and out.

I move through farmland, forest and fallow on foot. Never am I far from XP. That’s Xanthoria Parietina, commonly known as Maritime Sunburst Lichen. The lichen resembles fool’s gold, embossed on stone and tree. Like a human eye, its colours are best admired up close: flecks of lime, turmeric, flax, terracotta, butterscotch. Under direct sunlight, it rivals daffodils. In shady or moist conditions, it fades to khaki. Occasionally, I stoop or tiptoe to graft a specimen and admire its citrine intricacies, before placing it in my pocket. A tinge of sunlight glints on a February afternoon.

As I walk, stories about lichen surface in my mind, or perhaps they’re carried by the breeze. I once heard that in the Outer Hebrides, islanders boiled XP with urine to dye sheep’s wool. They would weave the tinted yarns into clò-mòr (Harris Tweed), which cloaked crofters and their families during harsh winters.

In second person

It’s a coastal path. You walk alone with Scarborough behind you. Land juts up from the sea. Turbulent air rushes between sea and land, whistling past your frozen ears. Landscapes unfold after each crest in the path. Salty breezes play with your hair. In each valley, you find shelter from the elements, weaving your way through patchwork thicket. Sweet earthy aromas and the sound of rushing water fade in and out.

You move through farmland, forest and fallow on foot. Never are you far from XP. That’s Xanthoria Parietina, commonly known as Maritime Sunburst Lichen. The lichen resembles fool’s gold, embossed on stone and tree. Like a human eye, its colours are best admired up close: flecks of lime, turmeric, flax, terracotta, butterscotch. Under direct sunlight, it rivals daffodils. In shady or moist conditions, it fades to khaki. Occasionally, you stoop or tiptoe to graft a specimen and admire its citrine intricacies, before placing it in your pocket. A tinge of sunlight glints on a February afternoon.

As you walk, stories about lichen surface in your mind, or perhaps they’re carried by the breeze. It is said that islanders of the Outer Hebrides boiled XP with urine to dye sheep’s wool. They would weave the tinted yarns into clò-mòr (Harris Tweed), which cloaked crofters and their families during harsh winters.

I am showing my work, Saint Dunstan in the East, alongside 30 other language artists. The exhibition has been curated by Camilla Nelson of Singing Apple Press. Radical Landscapes runs from March 23rd to April 20th (2019) at The Plough Arts Centre in Great Torrington, Devon. More info here.

Last Glacial Maximum. Richard Skelton.

A co-creation with slugs! Subtext. Alice Clark. 2018.

In cities, we don’t usually see polluted air in front of our eyes, but its impact may still be felt inside our lungs. According to Open Air Laboratories at Imperial College, “In contrast to the visible smogs that affected cities in the past, much of the air pollution in the UK today is largely invisible and so more difficult to detect”. The researchers say that nitrogen-containing pollutants, emitted by vehicle engines and industry, are a pervasive problem. But how do you raise awareness about something that’s invisible?

My approach is to render the invisible tangible by forming conscious connections. As a communication design researcher at the Royal College of Art, with a background as a yoga instructor, I am investigating how we can sense — and make sense of — atmospheric pollution through our own bodies.

Air is a medium shared by humans and non-human organisms; it effects and connects us all indiscriminately. If we pause to trust and listen to our felt experience of air quality, we are acknowledging connections between: polluting technologies, humans, ecosystems, and reactive matter.

Entangled. Reindeer lichen, willow, natural dyes. Lucy Sabin, 2018.

In cities where life moves fast, the only way we can reach awareness of synonymity between breath and atmosphere, is by practising the ‘art of noticing’, so that we can unravel our conditioned ways of being.

What connections can we look for? An example I’ve been using in my communication design workshops is field studies of the golden lichen, Xanthoria Parietina. When we actually question why cryptogams (sporing organisms) such as lichen and algae have constellated a surface, we are questioning the qualities of the atmosphere and environment. You may have already noticed X. Parietina’s leafy spread and cluster of orange fruiting bodies on roadside surfaces or near farmland. X. Parietina is, in fact, one of the most common species of lichen in the UK. The upsurge is recent, correlating with the rise in nitrogen-containing pollutants; X. Parietina evolved to derive nitrogens from bird droppings, but now it has a ready supply in our air.

A simple survey of X. Parietina only requires our physical senses, with no specialist equipment. Starting by a roadside, you can walk towards the heart of a park and take mental or written note of the lichen’s distribution. Typically, the lichen is concentrated near sources of transport emissions. It’s a fungal illustration of air quality in relation to surroundings.

The art of noticing is perhaps a lost or endangered art in some places. In London-based workshops, I’ve found that it is helpful to mentally prepare people for tuning in to their surroundings, the present moment. I do this by guiding a Prānāyāma session. Prānāyāma literally means to control or expand the life force — represented by the breath. The session involves a series of breathing techniques, that I might incorporate in a drop-in yoga class, but not habitually for such a long period.

Sustained conscious breathing has a profound effect on participants’ physical and mental awareness. After. time, their nervous systems completely shift gears. When they head outside to investigate air quality, they are filled with purpose and concentration. What’s more, they are able to perceive subtle changes in air quality through their own bodies.

The art of noticing requires a state close to meditation.

I am developing the art of noticing through lichen surveys, macro-photography, and sensory mapping by walking through streets and plotting changes in ease of breath and spectrums of smelled toxicity.

Philosophically speaking, the art of noticing is a kind of phenomenology, i.e. consciousness in relation to objects of direct experience, from a first-person point of view. Subjectivity has traditionally been undermined within monolithic, Western hierarchies of knowledge. But change is happening. Several research groups are currently investigating first-person experiences of breathlessness in relation to specific health conditions (see BreatheOxford and Life of Breath).

My goal is to find connections between breath phenomenology (art or participation) and atmosphere (science or experimentation), then facilitate communication channels for others to explore these connections. Air is ungraspable, yet it has a clear impact on our health. If the connection isn’t made in terms of collective understanding, then symptoms of lung conditions aren’t seriously considered in the context of air pollution and clean technologies aren’t demanded as a right to healthy cells.

As Anna Lowenhaupt-Tsing writes in The Mushroom at the End of the World: On the Possibility of Life in Capitalist Ruins (2015), “To learn anything we must revitalise arts of noticing and include ethnography and natural history”.

This article was originally published in The Learned Pig…

Lucy Sabin is taking part in Radical Landscapes: Innovation in Landscape and Language Art at The Plough Arts Centre, Great Torrington, Devon from 23rd March to 22nd April 2019.
www.singingapplepress.com

In support of the exhibition, The Learned Pig’s Spring 2019 editorial season is devoted to Radical Landscapes.

Above: Xanthoria Parietina under a microscope. Photo by Mark Powell.

“Symbiosis” literally means “living together”. The term became popular in the late 1800s, to describe the mutualistic relationship in lichen. A composite organism, lichen is defined by a stable symbiotic association between a fungus, an alga and/or cyanobacteria. The fungal layer literally shields its partner(s) from external conditions, such as wind or UV light. The algae and/or cyanobacteria reciprocates by producing sugars through photosynthesis.

My mission to infiltrate the British Lichen Society (BLS) is a story of artistic energy within a scientific structure. Over the course of an informal weekend workshop, I permeated the membranes of the Society, confronted the limitations of my own knowledge and tapped into the wisdom of others. With no formal training in Biology, I learned practical skills using microscopes, chemicals, and UV torches. By osmosis, I also encountered value systems and scientific languages that were completely unfamiliar. All the while, I couldn’t help worrying that my lack of scientific knowledge would leave me exposed and alone.

Fortunately, BLS members are supportive, much like the lichenised fungi they study. Their shared passion has created a warm sense of community over the years. Every winter, they convene at a hotel in North Yorkshire and establish a pop-up laboratory in a function room. For three days, rows of members peer into microscopes intently, scrawl notes, and buzz excitedly amongst themselves.

Inspecting X. Parietina under the microscope.

I was the unexpected designer-in-residence, and the youngest member of the Society, by quite a stretch. As I was such a curiosity to the others, explaining my presence became a repeated affirmation. “No, not a Scientist — I’m from the Royal College of Art — interested in lichen as a biological indicator of air quality — it’s really about embodied, ecological ways to communicate atmospheric pollution in general”.

It was heartening that most of my interlocutors took my art school musings seriously. In fact, several of them confirmed or called into question my assumptions, coming back to me with advice and recommendations.

Of course, there were times during the weekend where I did feel lost and out of my depth; I discovered that it requires a lot of energy, patience and determination to immerse yourself in a new discipline. I had read enough lichenology papers to at least ask relevant questions, even if the answers eluded me.

But a beginner’s mind has its advantages. I have new mentors now — notable biological minds who I can email or call at any time with queries. Two are even coming to my exhibition. Without their mentorship, I would never have had the guts to start devising my own lichen surveys with qualitative data, or even pursue a pseudo-scientific methodology. Staying humble in the wake of their experience, rather than cherry-picking theories from lichenology papers without visiting the country itself, has made me a more intrepid and rigorous researcher.

Thanks to members of the BLS for their ongoing support. 

Please note that the main purpose of this blog is to be a repository for my ideas and a place I can make mistakes outside of the traditional academic frameworks that OF COURSE I adhere to as part of my Masters in Research and forthcoming PhD applications. There will be typos and grammatical inconsistencies. You have been warned! 🙂

I used to freelance as a UX/UI designer for a startup that was hot-desking in Shoreditch. On my cycle into work, there was a particular junction – the one outside the station – where my lungs felt like they would implode from the vehicle fumes. I became THAT breathless.

I have no history of respiratory disorders yet it seems that myself and so many other Londoners struggle with breathing on a daily basis (I now live in Brighton and appreciate the sea breeze). Some of us may skip off to the gym or a yoga class to “get lean”. But how is our health on a cellular level?

As a yoga teacher who tries to communicate the importance of breathing fully, I’m aware that we aren’t conscious of our breathing all the time. Our wandering minds habitually focus on other things.

But, if we direct our attention to our breathing and trust in our own interoception (how our bodies feel internally), I think more of us would be shocked.

So, my real nagging question is: why is it not enough that our bodies can perceptibly sense air pollution for something to be done about it?

Actually I have a few more questions:

• Does our society devalue embodied knowledge to the point that we ignore our own experience of breathing as legitimate evidence of air pollution?
• Will we listen when expensive studies are conducted by scientists belonging to prestigious institutions? The history of communication strategies for “climate change” and the rest of human-made ecocide indicate that we collectively won’t.
• How do we communicate that BREATH IS LIFE FORCE? Air is a shared medium between all ecosystems on this planet. Including us. I borrow an idea from yogic philosophy here.
• Lastly, where can I buy a fashionable breathing mask? (Just kidding.)

So this blog is the start of something new. If you like, it’s an exegesis of my forthcoming, self-lead research into Breath as Protest and Life Force and basically Number 42 (Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy reference).

Realistically, my research methods and practices are going to come out of trial and error and general inquisitive open-mindedness.

I am already fretting about the structure of this post (or lack thereof) but I need to start being more “agile” and “lean” with developing these ideas, as I used to in the trendy Shoreditch office with awkward plugs positioned between people’s legs… so awkward.

I digress. Here we go! PUBLISH.