earth skin

The below images include composites made using red bole – a rust-red sedimentary rock that forms on top of ossified lava in the periods between eruptions. It is partly made up of scorched forests, ‘bole’ meaning ‘the body or trunk of a tree’. This particular bole dates back 60 million years and provides a record of the Isle ofMull’s subtropical history.

This rock was once a forest, spongy, fuzzy redwood that, in a great pyroclastic kiln, transformed into dense, brown-red stone. In these images, the bole undergoes another metamorphosis, this time from solid to liquid, embodying a shift from something seemingly unmoving, constant, and rigid, to something flowing, elusive, and mercurial, just as it did when it joined the ancient lava flows whose trajectories terraformed the island I stand on today.

In a culture that barely acknowledges the connections between humans and animals, this series goes a step further, speaking to the kinships between rock bodies and human bodies, and also to the questions: what does it mean to make an inside an outside?; what does it mean to be a body that is erratic and enduring the same breath?

The series includes a prose-ish poem drawing on these relationships (see below).

Paint red bole, gum arabic, olive oil

Gathered, processed, and photographed on the Isle of Gometra, summer 2024.

There are wrinkles at the edge of me.

Fractals that expand in concentric rings…

fluid dynamics between tectonic plates, cartilage and cavity.

I am an amniotic explosion of hydrogen, helium, and lithium.

A rickle of bones and stones.

When I rotate my body, peculiar shapes are cast, debossed, marked —

my face is embroidery, adorned with crevasses.

I am made of calcium carbonate, saltwater and empty space.

There are more atoms in my body than you’ll ever be able to count.

They dance, the hydrogens and oxygens —

It is how they make life.

Sometimes, my insides become my outsides.

I am fire born and made of leaky constellations.

Great rivers of heat and liquid erupt from pores the size of civilisations.

Birds call me their landing place, and for that I am thankful.

They say, ‘no man is an island’, to which I reply, ‘I am an archipelago’.

I am terra, I am aqua.

My hairs, forests, billowing in the blistering wind.

I have seen time do things to my body no words can describe.

I am motive, revolutionary, fluctuating.

When tears fall, blossom follows, my body sprouting, sponging, tiding me on.

Beneath the fuzz, fat, and regolith is a mycelium of lithic sinew —

clutching a molten core, gases and guts buried beneath porous, metallic layers…

mineral, fascia, element.

I am still turning, still being born.