Cliff Andrade MA RCA (UK, b. 1982) uses drawing, printmaking, photography, moving image and walking to explore the effect of class and migration on our sense of identity and belonging. He is based at Spike Island Studios, Bristol, UK.

A previous winner of the Jill Todd Photo Award, he has exhibited work at a variety of galleries including ArtHouse Jersey, St Helier (2022); RWA, Bristol (2020); Southwark Park Galleries (2020), and; Streetlevel Photoworks (Glasgow 2014).

Andrade works with a diverse and dynamic range of media, combining traditional printmaking, photography, time-based media and walking to explore notions that dominate his lived experience: belonging & unbelonging, place & memory, displacement, labour & poverty, hope & hopelessness and notions of family - and the emotional potency of the intersections between them all. He is particularly interested in the idea of ‘home’ and its importance to our sense of personal identity.

Cliff’s current research focus is on whether walking can act as a kind of ‘therapy’ for the trauma present in the themes of his work. His audio essay, Bristoler Chronik explores his approach to walking and the ideas it allows him to explore.

Cliff is a Tutor and Lecturer at Bristol School of Art and Cardiff School of Art.


Cliff hopes to:
    • through discussion, continue to learn more about the walking experiences of others
    • share his experiences and ideas about walking, refining those ideas in the process
    • walk in a physical, and social, landscape which is completely unknown to him
    • place notions he has of walking in Sweden, particularly in regards to ideas of wilderness, against the reality of experience


Conscious of the danger of solipsism in his walking practice, this opportunity is crucial to allow him to create dialogues with others.



Björk, Jóga

Bonobo & Bajka, Days To Come

Manuel Garcia, Venga la Vida

Massive Attack, Daydreaming


Reading List 


Foucault, Michel, Of Other Spaces, Heterotopias

Lefebvre, Henri, The Production of Space

Cabeza de Vaca: from the version translated and edited by Cyclone Covey and published by the University of New Mexico Press (1983)



Hayes, Nick, The Book of Trespass: Crossing the lines that divide us [Bloomsbury; London: 2021]


"In 2004, Trevor Phillips, the then chairman of the Equality and Human Rights Commission, spoke of a 'passive aparthied' in the British countryside. Figures show that the 9 per cent of Britain's population who are from an ethnic minority constitute only 1 per cent of the visitors to the countryside. Further to this that stats say that while 10 per cent of the population in towns are from ethnic minorities, only 1 per cent of the rural population are black or minority ethnic. In 2013, Brian True-May stepped down from producing the ITV show Midsomer Murders after declaring that 'we just don't have ethnic minorities involved becuase it wouldn't be the the English village with them... We're the last bastion of Englishness and I want to keep it that way.'

     Academics from the University of Leicester in their 2011 report of Rural Racism found that minority ethnic incomers 'were often treated with suspicion as many white rural residents felt that they belonged only in the city, with all its concomitant "negative" attributes of noise, pollution, crime and, crucially for some, multiculturalism'. In the eyes of rural England, black means urban, but the moment these communities cross the line into the countryside they challenge 'the very idea of Englishness itself'."


Read her [Vanessa Kisuule] words, and then, with the permission, try swapping the word story for land: 'For so long it felt like this story, I wasn't entitled to it, it didn't belong to me, it wasn't my place, so I made a decision, a small decision in my head and heart: this story is yours too.'"


The greatest lie of Nationalism is that it defends the interests of its nationals. The people it defends, however, are not those it defines, but those who define it. Englishness has always been defined by the landed lords of England and fed in colkumns of hot air to the landless: you might not have land, but at leas you have England.


BUt after sociologist Henri Lefebvre's book The Production of Space was published in 1974, a new wave of academics began to view space not just as an impassive backfrop to the theatre of society but as a protagonist in the play.

The way space is divided (or, in other words, the way pace is constructed) has a direct influence on the people who operate within it - it affects their habits, customs and ideologies. Ther decision of who and what space is directly for shapes the structure of society within it: what is allowed, what is encouraged and what is forbidden. Lefebvre created the term 'Third Space' to discuss the interaction between how places were conceived (mapped and designed) and how they perceived (how they affected the lives of those that lived within them); THird SPace is the place where real life occurs amid its theoretical design. His theories were influenced by philosopher Michel Foucault, who had developed the notion of heterotopia five years before.For Foucault, 'spatial politics', the interaction of societies with the places they created, was the 'central theme of modernity'.


This is the place for every occasion and every mood. This is the place you can come to when your best mate's dad dies, when your friend announces the baby in her womb, when you don't want to pay sixty quid to get into a club on New Year's Eve, where you can howl and whoop and sing your throat raw without offending your neighbours, and where you can get profoundly and marvellously high.


Rationalism is a long way away and when night falls there are no concrete walls of electirc lights to protect you from the atavistic  - the boggarts, changelings, giants, ghosts and monsters step out from behind the lie of fiction, and dance in the dark spaces around us.


Frances Zaunmiller ... defined wilderness as the psychological expanse where 'a man can walk without trespassing.' In her fierece and phenomenal  book Pip Pip, Jay Griffiths goes several steps further: 'wilderness is a ferocious intoxication whihc sweeps over your senses with rinsing vitality, leaving you stripped to the vivid, your senses rubbed until they shine. It is an untouched place which touches you deeply and its aftermarth - when landscape becomes innerscape - leaves you elated, awed and utterly changed. forget the lullaby balm of nature tame as a well-fedlawn, here nature has a lean and violent waking grandeur which will not let you sleep ... It is an aphrodisiac; it is a place of furious fecundity ... not virginal but erupting with the unenclosable passion at the volcanic heart of life.'


Wildness means self-willedness and is the state of being undirected, uncultivated, free from the template of someone else's design.



True wildness is unpredictable, and can lead people to question their position in society.



Hundreds of years of private property laws hav morphed into a strict orthodoxy in English society, an unquestioned consensus as to what can and can't happen in the countryside. If it's not a walk along a Right of Way, or a picnic in a designated area, if you haven't paid of it then you're almost certainly not allowed to do it. This has led to a peculiar and hugely distorted vision of the English countryside: its brand. Watch TV, read the papers, walk into a camping shop and you'd think the countryside is cutom-built for enthusiastic middle-class white people in Thinsulate hats and sensible walking shoes. This is the land as it is sold to us, because, today, even leisure is an industry.


 He ['Rooster' Byron from Jezz Butterworth's Jerusalem] is talking about the wild sabbats on the opne plains, the world outside the heedful eye of the patriarchs, an alternative, vernacular lifestyle that operates beyond the matrix of commerce. He's talking about a place where wildness doesn't come with a price tag, where freedom is free.



In Finalnd, the freedom to roam is called jokamiehenoikeus; in Sweden allemansrätten, in Norway allemannsrett and in Austria Wegefreiheit. In all instances, these  rights existed in the country long before there was a nation or a language to define them. In a recent campaign by the Swedish tourist board, the advertisers chose simply to register the land of Sweden on Airbnb. The move was an inspired peice of free publicity, but also expressed one of the key concepts of the Swedish psyche: the land is your home. In the words of the Visiti Sweden website: Sweden has no Eiffel Towers. No NIagara Falls or Big Bens. Not even a little Sphinx. Sweden has something else - the freedom to roam. This is our monument.'



'The great cause of inequality in the distribution of wealth is inequality in the ownership of land. The ownership of land is the great fundamental fact which ultimately determines the social, the political, and consequently the intellectual and moral condition of people.' [Henry George, Progress and Poverty]



The fences and walls that are strangling our land are contricting our connection to the stories that can heal us, the magic that can link us once again to the land and to each other.



It [land ownership] is a story that redefines a walk as an act of agression...


Solnit, Rebecca, 'A Field Guide to Getting Lost' [Canongate: Edinburgh, 2017]


It is the job of artists to open doors and invite in prophecies, the unknown, the unfamiliar; it's where their work comes from, although its arrival signals the beginning of the long disciplined process of making it their own... But they [scientists] transform the unknown into the known, haul it in like fishermen; artists get you out into that dark sea.


"But to losse oneself in a city  - as one loses oneself in a forest p that calls for quite a differnt schooling." To lose yourself: a voluptuous surrender, lost in your arms, lost to the world, utterly immersed in what is present so that its surroundings fade away. In Benjamin's terms, to be lost is to be fully present, and to be fully present is to be capable of being in uncertainty and mystery. ANd one does not get lost but loses oneself, with the implicaton that it is a conscious choice, a chosen surrender, a psychic state achievable through geography.

     THat thiing the nature of which is totally unknwon toyou is usually what you need to find, and finding it is a matter of getting lost.


[From Thoreau's Walden] "Not till we are completely lost. or turned around, - for a men needs only to be turned round once with his eyes shut in this world to be lost, - do we appreciate the vastness and strangeness of nature. Not till we are lost, in other words, not till we have lost the world, do we begin to find ourselves, and realize where we are and the infinite extent of our relations."


For Woolf, getting lost was not a matter of geography so much as identity, a passionate desire, even an urgent need, to be come no one and anyone, to shake off the shackles that remind you who you are, who others things you are. THe dissolution of identity is familiar to travelers in foreign places and remote fastnesses

(the moving migrant???)


The [Pit River] Indians refer to it as 'wandering'. They say of a certain man, 'He is wandering,' or 'He has started to wander.' It would seem that under certain conditions of mental stress an individual finds life in his accustomed surroundings too hard to bear. Such a man starts to wander. He goes about the country, travelling aimlessly. He will stop here or there at the camps of friends and relations, moving on, never stopping at any place longer than a few days. He will not make any outward show of grief, sorrow or worry.... The Wanderer, man or woman, shuns camps or villages, remains in wild, lonely places, on tops of mountains, in the bottom of canyons." THis wanderer isn't far from Woolf, and she too knew despair and the desire for what Buddhists call unbeing... De Angulo goes on to say that wandering can lead to death, to hopelessness, to madness, to various forms of despair, or that it may lead to encounters with other powers in the remoter places a wanderer may go.


[Simone Weil] "Let us love this distance, which is thoroughly woven with friendship, since those who do not love each other are not separated."


A case coukd be made that they [migrants] would have been better off melting into the landscape as no doubt many now forgotten did, adopting native tongues, stories, places to love, ceasing to be exiles by ceasing to remember the country they were exiled from so that they could wholly embrace the country they were in. Only by losing that past would they lose the condition of exile, for the place they were exiled from no longer existed, and they were no longer the people who had left it.

(I have often considered this - if it would just be easier to let go; to forget)


The histories I've written have often been hidden, lost, neglected, too broad or too amorphous to show up in others' radar screens, histories that are not neat fields that belong to someone but the paths and waterways that meander through many fields and belong to no one.

(like my parents?)


Often initially, these strays and captives felt they were far from home, distnat from their desires, and then at some point, in a stunning reversal, they came to be at home and what they had longed for became remote, alien, unwanted. For some, perhaps, there was a moment then they realised that the old longings had become little more than habit and that they were not yearning to go home but had been home for some time;


And some people travel far more than others. There are those that receive as birthright an adequate or at least unquestioned sense of self and those who set out to reinvent themselves, for survival or for satisfaction, and travel far. Some people inherit values and practices as a house they inhabit; some of us have to burn down that house, find our own ground, build from scratch, even as a psychological metamorphosis. As a cultural metamorphosis the transition is far more dramatic.

(this describes my class journey)


I lost a whole life and gradually gained another one, more open and more free.


An earlier one [compilation tape] had been called Geography Lessons, Mostly Tragic, and there too I had tried to get something about the evocation of place and its emotional resonance in the music.

(maybe, deep down, that is what No Place Like Home is about - the emotional resonance of place. just that.)


The places in which any significant event occurred become embedded with some of that emotion, and so to recover the memory of the place is to recover the emotion, and sometimes to revisit the place uncovers the emotion. Every love has its landscape. Thus place, which is always spoken of as though it only counts when you're present, possesses you in its absence, takes on another life as a sense of place, a summoning in the imagination with all the atmospheric effect and association of a powerful emotion. The places inside matter as much as the ones outside. It is as though in the wya places stay with you and that you long for them they become deities - a lot of religions have local deities, presiding spirits, geniuses of the place. You could imagine that in those songs Kentucky or the Red River is a spiit to which the singer prays, that they mournthe deamtime before banishment, when the singer lived among the gods who were not phantasms but geography, matter, earth itself.


is it that such sadness is only the side effect of art that describes the depths of our lives, and to see that described in all its potential for loneliness and pain is beautiful?


A happy love is a single story, a disintegrating one is two or more competing, conflicting versions, and a disintegrated one lies at your feet like a shattered mirror, each shard reflecting a different story, that it was wonderful, that it was terrible, if only this had, if only that hadn't.


As you step up to the ridgeline, the world to the west suddenly appears before you, a colossal expanse even more wild and remote than the east, a surprise, a gift, a revelation. The world doubles in size. Something like that happens when you really see someone,



Björk, Jóga [One Little Indian / Mother / Polydor; 1997]


I feel

Emotional landscapes

They puzzle me

Then the riddle gets solved

And you push me up into 

This state of emergency

How beautiful to be

This state of emergency

Is where I want to be




Shepherd, Nan, The Living Mountain [Canongate; Edinburgh: 2014]



[Quoting Patrick Kavanagh] "In the world of poetic experience it is depth that counts, not width. A gap in a hedge, a smooth rock surfacing a narrow lane, a view of a woody meadow, the stream at the junction of four small fields - these are as much as a man can fully experience."



For Merleau-Ponty, post-Cartesian philosophy had cleaved a false divide between the body and the mind.



For Shepherd, the body thinks best when the mind stops, when it is 'uncoupled' from the body. She writes exquisitively of these moments on the mountain when one 'is not bedeviled by thought'. 'They come to me most often', she says, 'waking out of outdoor sleep, gazing tranced at the running of water and listening to its song.' BUt the best way of all to uncouple the mind is to walk: 'After hours of steady walking, with the long rhythm of motion sustained until motion is felt, not merely known by the brain, as the "still centre" of being... [you] walk the flesh transparent.' 'On the mountain', she says in the book's closing sentences, 'for an hour I am beyond desire. It is not ecstacy... I am not out of myself, but in myself. I am. That is the final grace accorded from the mountain.

(uncoupled or actually coupled?)



To pit ineself against the mountain is necessary for every cimber: to pit oneself merely against other players, and make a race of it, is to reduce to the level of a game what is essentially an experience.



I am a mountain lover because my body is at its best in the rarer air of the heights and communicates its elation to the mind.



The sustained rhythm of movement in a long climb has also its part in inducing the sense of physical well-being



Yet, often the mountain gives itself most completely when I have no destination, when I reach nowhere in particular, but have gone out merely to be with the mountain as one visits a friend with no intention but to be with him.



and as the rose and violet hues spread over snow and sky, the colour seemed to live its own life, to have body and resilience, as though we were not looking at it, but were inside its substance



As one slips over into sleep, the mnd grows limpid; the body melts; perception alone remains. One netheir thinks, nor desires, nor remembers, but dwells in pure intimacy with the tangible world.



One's body is limber with the sustained rhythm of mounting, and relaxed in the ease that follows the eating of food. One is as tranquil as the stones, rooted far down in their immobiliy.

(I am now locked out of this tranquility becauseof my body?)



But now and then comes an hour when the silence is all but absolute, and listening to it one slips out of time. Such a silence is not a mere negation of sound. It is like a new element, and if water is still sounding with a low far-off murmur, it is no more than the last edge of an element we are leaving, as the last edge of land hangs on the mariner's horizon.



This plunge into the cold water of a mountain pool seems for a brief moment to disintegrate the very self; it is not to be borne: one is lost: stricken: annihilated. Then life pours back.



These moments come unpredictably, yet governed, it owuld seem, by a law whose working is dimly understood. They come to me ost often, as I have indicated, waking out of outdoor sleep, gazing tranced at the running of water and listening to its song, and most of all after hours of steady walking, with the long rhythm of motion sustained until motion is felt, not merely known by the brain, as the 'still centre' of being. In some such way I suppose the controlled breathing of the yogi must operate. Walking thus, hour after hour, the senses keyed, one walks the flesh transparent*. But no metaphor, transparent, or light as air, is adequate. The body is not made negligible, but paramount. Flesh is not annihilated but fulfilled. One is not bodiless, but essential body. 

     It is therefore when the body is keyed to its highest potential and controlled to a profound harmony deepening into something that resembles trance, that I discover most nearly what it is to be. I have walkied out of the body and into the mountain. I am a manifestation of its total life, as in the starry saxifrage or the white-winged ptarmigan. 

(*great exhibition title: walking the flesh transparent; to walk the flesh transparent)


So I have found what I set out to find. I set out on my journey in pure love. It began in childhood...



Cliff Andrade

Chasing Sunyata

(working title)

October 2023




Day 1



Connect to place passed.
Blue sky between plant feathers.
A caged pine. Hope.
after the initial photographs of excitement
I wonder if I feel a great sense of peace
because of the light
am I encountering the place
or the light?
the Pacific North West (big trees)
or Scotland (plantation forests)
thoughts of practice
a return to meditative walking
to be drawn inside
in a place where I know nothing and am not known
but I am told I look suspicious
and I am interested in how everything here
the houses
the road
feels so much closer to nature
than the rural places
of home

Day 2



Collected Walks


a collective walk
almost immediately the group splits
perhaps along lines of something felt
bet as yet unperceived
or maybe just time
some constrained
others not
the sea is choppy
boats bounce and strain their mooring ropes
i don't draw
there is too much talking to be done
a discussion on the absence of farming
then we meet a farmer
maybe it is population density
or soil

Day 3


i haven't thought about memories at all today
i've thought aobout how cold i am 
(i put my thermals on)
i thought about being in the forest alone
bit spooky
i've worried about forgetting my high-vis
in hunting season
i've worried a little about needing a poo
i've delighted in the fact that there is so much space here
it's like a British dream that we could never have
even in scotland
and i wonder if this is true and if so why?
closer to nature
in high season it could be different
who are the people who come here and fill these big houses?
i sit on the beach
just sit in the light
it is a gift
i should read all the things here i never have time to
it is wild but safe here
wild but civilised
i stopped and sat today which i never do
my bowels uncharateristically calm

Day 4


I made a video art performance
on the beach
with Berni
and felt sand in my boots for the rest of the afternoon
last night I did not gain clarity
on my questions
concerning the social demographics here
I am aware
I cannot read the landscape here
the codes
so I am ignorant but also free
we are like children
moving about without responsibility
i'm surpirsed by how hardly any land is fenced off here
by the lack of livestock
i love the outrops of bulbous boulders
did the sea erode the land
and leave the islands
or did it fill in
between these rocky domes

Day 5


today was not about me
about introspection
autoethnographical subjectivity
it was about the outward
about others
setting art to the side 
and connecting
catching the boat
dipping in the ocean
laughing in the sauna
sharing time
getting lost in the woods
sheltering from the rain
singing at the dinner table
dancing in the kitchen
chatting deep into the early hours
connecting on a deeper level
and being seen

Day 6


sometimes the universe 
brings you together
with the right person at the right time
sometimes you meet a group
who allow you to experience
a better version of yourself
sometimes the briefest of encounters
resonate the most deeply
even the lord had to rest for a day
i am increasingly interested
in the rocks here
and how some buildings
are built entirely on them
and i feel a sense of isolation here
for the first time

Day 7


another day of fantastic light
glorious light
it penetrates the soul
and the emotions come spilling out
peace whilst walking
tears on the swing by the water
now i have been here a while
i take less photos
the landscape no longer a constant surprise
i am moving deeper
focusing not on the place
but on my subjectivity
how should i capture the emotonal experience of it?focusing on walking as action
my thoughts are dominated
by how my connection with another 
will inevitably be the lens 
through which i look back at my time here
the light
the light
Shrewsbury in February
New York 2006
Early mornings photographing in London
Bamburgh beach in spring
they are all here
it is all of them at once
and yet none of them

Day 8


the light is colder today
i walk through a deciduous wood
and for the first time i notice autumn on the ground
i go south
and see everyday homes for the first time
farm equipment in use
cars needing maintenance
the barking of dogs
lived in
less holiday perfect
but i'm struggling today
one more big loop
and i have covered the whole 'peninsula'
i am in map mode
bureaucrat mode
obsessed with time
over experience
trying to get it done
which route is most efficient? in what order?
i have lost the simple joy of wandering
and wondering
and discovering
these days are part of the journey
the process
i need to get them out
get past them
i twice draw to combat my analytical mind
the sea so calm
like a swimming pool expectant
maybe i should rub
but i have no crayons
today's walk felt shorter
but regardless
i always get back at 3pm

Day 9


i start the day
needing to get the last bit of the 'peninsula'
once this is done
i will be free again
to wander
and wonder
up into the boulders
and think whether sea levels rise
will these be all that remain
a thousand new islands
somehow they manage to make me let go a bit
to be analytical but also a bit free
to follow random paths
in the knowledge that nothing in Björkö 
is that far
but knowing also
that you don't need to go that far
to encounter difficulty
i am rewarded 
by a bolting deer
that stops long enough
to fix my gaze
before disappearing
by discovering a bunker
built into a granite dome
whose lychen
slips away underfoot
leaving a sinewy goo
as if attached by chocolate mousse
i find jesus
but no coffee
Stenninge, Finnala, Simpnäs, all the Marums, Blekunge, Kulla, Skeppsmyra, Stärbsnäs
they are done
tomorrow i hope to rediscover
my free wanderings
and wonderings

Day 10


today is not about words
or even thinking
twice tramping off-route
through woods
to connect paths
have i walked enough
am i now
avoiding having to make something
of walking already done?
i try and clear my mind as i walk
hear sounds as one
feel my feet
the exterior irrelevant
expect for the fact that it is safe
and i know roughly where i need to go
coastal progress impeded
by private property
i see livestock
and more lonely goals
you could a whole project
just photographing these
gently fall and fade
in a brief warm sunshine glow
delicate snowflakes

Day 11


i set aside plans
and walk accompanied
sharing my first ever walk
to the sea and rocks
cecilia is happy
the wind blows
the granite glows

Day 12


sometimes not moving
a day to consolidate
is as important