This exposition is published in the Proceedings of the 1st symposium Forum Artistic Research: listen for beginnings.

tír-éist: collaborative practice with more-than-human colleagues

Shane Finan

1 Outline

In this paper I document a process that is incomplete and experimental. It is a process of collaborative artistic practice linked with contemporary theory in ethics and philosophy, and as it is incomplete I attempt to draw no conclusions, rather just present some linked thoughts. The concepts in each section relate to revealing or giving voice to other-than-human colleagues who are often voiceless.

It matters what words speak, what languages live, and what stories are heard. The language of landscape is complex. Tír-Éist is a compound word that I proposed for this talk. It combines the Irish word ‘tír’, which is ‘land, country, landscape and place’ with ‘éist’, which is most often the active verb to listen, but more particularly is a verb for ‘paying attention to’. Éist is not just a process of the ear, but one of being aware.

I include an overview of three case studies that involve collaborative artistic research. I have played a role in each of the three: in one as artist, in one as an artistic manager, and in the third as part of a collective. The paper separates out these projects. The first considers the approach used in this research, and gives a case study where it was employed. The second focuses more on what collaborative artistic research might look like, and gives a case study of how this changes with different artists involved. Finally, the third gives an example of a collective approach with a shared understanding outlined in advance of a community based project.

To begin, I outline the theory that has underpinned all of these projects beginning with a view of how artistic research related to the other-than-human has changed in the last 70 years.

2 You are also touched

Jacques Cousteau’s Le Monde du Silence premiered at Cannes Film Festival in 1956 (Cousteau 1956). It was Cousteau’s first film, based on his 1953 book of the same title, beginning the career of a documentarian that lasted decades and had a profound impact on the way the natural world was presented in visual media. The action takes place mainly on a boat and occasionally on a submersible, with an all-male scientific crew using new camera technologies to give visibility to sea life that had never been recorded on film previously. It is, in many ways, a marvel of filmmaking, and in 1956 won both the Palme d’Or at Cannes and an Academy Award for best documentary.

Cousteau used artistic documentary as a storytelling medium to highlight the life of the natural world. His storytelling was crucial, yet the film contains many scenes that are shocking to a modern viewer. Cousteau later apologised for many of the moments in the film that came to be criticised as unnecessarily violent. One example is when the crew unironically use dynamite to kill hundreds of fish for a survey to see what lives in a particular area, and then shrug it off as OK because it is ‘for science’. Yet no scene in the film encapsulates the embedded biases of the filmmaker and his crew more than when they encounter a pod of whales that swim alongside the boat for a while. The crew laugh and jostle one another as they throw harpoons playfully at the whales. They do not break skin, but as their fun continues their boat’s propeller accidentally catches one of the whales’ fins and it is injured. Its blood attracts sharks, which the crew then demonise, describing them in terms that make them out to be evil and vicious, calling them a ‘sailor’s mortal enemy’. The sailors begin to kill the sharks while they feed, harpooning them and pulling them on board, bludgeoning and stabbing them for the film (Fig. 1). They murder indiscriminately, not for food but for what they describe as ‘revenge’, and take joy in the murder. They even blame the sharks for the whale’s death, seemingly forgetting what had started the frenzy minutes before.

Cousteau was an outspoken protagonist in the early environmental movement, publicly denouncing acts such as dumping nuclear waste and later playing a key role in stopping Antarctic mining (Shortis 2015). Yet this early film now reads like a snapshot of a particular way of thinking about the other-than-human world that was acceptable enough to win awards in Western society in 1956. The nonhuman was presented with human moralistic bias of good and evil, in this case good whales and evil sharks. The crew’s role seems almost godlike, exempt from judgement.

The idea seems to suggest that by observing through a lens, somehow the observer is displaced into a mist of otherness, an obscure boundary that hides the filmmaker from the subject being filmed. However, as scholar Maria Puig de la Bellacasa reminds us, nothing we observe comes without its own world, and nothing can be touched without touching back (de la Bellacasa 2017).

The ethic of shared care is exemplified in artworks that take care to consider the many human and nonhuman voices present in a collective process. Many artists today give voice to the human and nonhuman colleagues that they work with (for a comprehensive documentation of this, see Pritchard and Prophet 2023). Although there are many examples, one that stands out as a counter-point to Cousteau’s earlier work is Laure Prouvost’s Deep Sea Blue Surrounding You (2019, Fig. 2). In this work Prouvost entangles the complex movement of ocean, marine life, and human in an installation that envelops the audience in sound, smell and tactile sensation, defying the need to separate the human and yet somehow giving human voice (Prouvost 2019). Prouvost presented this work as a collaboration between many artistic voices, highlighting the role of human and nonhuman in the presentation and the process.

Figure 1: A shark is dragged from the water by Jacques Cousteau’s crew, Jacques Cousteau, Le Monde du Silence, 1956.

Figure 2: Laure Prouvost, Deep Sea Blue Surrounding You (2019), dimensions variable, image from Lisson Gallery, https://www.lissongallery.com/artists/laure-prouvost/artworks/deep-see-blue-surrounding-you?image_id=14734 (accessed 07 May 2025).

2.1 A more-than-human ethic

In her early field work in the 1960s, the primatologist Thelma Rowell regularly noted that by being present she changed the primates’ behaviours (Rowell 1972). She wrote about how gibbons knew that they were safer from other predators when a human was visible. While their behaviour toward her was guarded, and they kept their distance, they also fed and played more in the open than they would if a human observer were better hidden. Many of Rowell’s observations were dismissed as she did not acquiesce to the male-dominated status quo on ethology. In her words: “It is surely a comment on our own species that we have attempted to explain the behaviour of other species almost entirely in terms of concepts defined by aggression” (Rowell 1972, 159).

Rowell wrote this in 1972, 17 years after Cousteau’s documentary. She later returned to England to observe the relationship between humans and sheep, which led to philosopher Vinciane Despret writing about her work in 2005 and giving it new recognition (Despret 2005).

Despret’s philosophy considers how humans bring subjective bias to all manner of scientific and artistic research on animals and birds. Approaching philosophy from the lens of ethology, Despret gives many examples where ethologists presume a scientific rationale yet somehow overlook their own underlying prejudices and biases about what they expect animals to do (Despret 2016). She puts this succinctly:

The a priorist … does not believe in what the real is telling him: the duplicity of causes, the obviousness of bias, provide so many occasions to think badly. (Despret 2021b)

This problem can be approached as a challenge of boundaries, a challenge to think not in duality but in multiplicity. The boundary around a fixed truth is perhaps not as fixed as it first appears. In her work on bird behaviours, Despret leans heavily on Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari’s concept of ‘deterritorialization’ to consider how territories are folded in on one another, constructed and deconstructed repeatedly, porous and malleable (Despret 2021a). As Deleuze and Guattari would posit, the effect of any engagement between two bodies is always part of a multiplicitous and complex entanglement that they call ‘rhizomatic’ (Deleuze and Guattari [1986] 2023).

Such theory can be used as an approach to artistic research. Rhizomatic methods of research can give potential for complex and comprehensive considerations on human-nonhuman relationships, and by embracing the porousness of living boundaries, we can develop relationships between human and nonhuman collaborators that embrace different ways of thinking-with and being-with one another (Fig. 3).

One way to potentially challenge these biases and use rhizomatic processes in artistic development is to create a clear collaborative workflow. This has been tested in different artistic projects, some of which I outline here as case studies. The relevance to each is linked back to an area of theory, so I bring in each case study one at a time. The first that I will share is a university-led research project, FIELD (2018–23).

Figure 3: Exploring touch and developing artworks on FIELD, Shane Finan, ]EXPOSURE[[ENCLOSURE] 2020⁠–⁠21.

2.2 Case Study 1: FIELD

The project website outlines FIELD succinctly:

FIELD is a five-year interdisciplinary project funded by the Wellcome Trust (2018-2023). It brings a team of social scientists, historians, economists and epidemiologists together to research how livestock disease is influenced by nature and culture, science and society, and the actions of humans and livestock.1

FIELD was complex, exploring empathy, attitudes toward farming, relationships with animals, the spread and monitoring of livestock disease, and the socio-economic effects of disease on farming. This was guided by research teams in six partner universities working on epidemiology, history, economics, and social science. I was one of three artists in residence with photographer Michele Allen and filmmaker Mark Richard Jones. The artistic response required working closely with farmers, animals, and academics, and the artists were supported in developing work and artistic research over approximately a one year period, including public outreach. The entanglement of sociological, epidemiological and artistic research led to varied outcomes, for example illustrating how marks of care are shown through different media (Mahon et al. 2024).

FIELD was multidisciplinary. The artists came together by video call at least once per month, sometimes more often, to discuss our ongoing concepts and ideas, restricted from meeting in person by a human disease, the COVID-19 pandemic. Remotely working, we engaged in what writer and writer Craig Slee once termed ‘tidal thinking’, sharing concepts, readings and musings through wash and swash of ideas, but not collaborating in the sense of creating a single, unified artwork (Slee 2022).

Each artist approached the project by bringing their own specialist skills and experience to their work. I spent time in the field with sheep and farmers, bringing my knowledge of digital systems and sensors. One of the artworks produced was an interactive installation using RFID cards for audiences to create multispecies collages, it seemed like we were moving closer together (Finan 2021; see Fig. 4). Radio-fre­quen­cy identification (RFID) is used both in microchips for farm animals and in the contactless cards we all began to use so much after the pandemic began. By entangling care for animals and humans with technological and social engagement, this work and others on the project sought to make visible the complex, rhizomatic entanglements that are often hidden.
  1. https://field-wt.co.uk (accessed 28 Apr 2025)

Each artistic response was a reaction to how we perceived the complexity of this project. Yet we all drew from similar texts and thoughts. The resultant public outreach included social events in farmers markets, film screenings, exhibitions, a publication, and web-art.2 Presenting the complex entanglement of a project about epidemiology became the task of a complex entanglement of artists, each with our own background, perspective, and bias. We responded to the nonhuman by part-becoming nonhuman, while each artist had a unique response that, when put together with the others, gave visibility to many parts of the broader research project and the human-animal relationships in farming.
  1. https://stories.field-wt.co.uk (accessed 28 Apr 2025)

Figure 4: A visitor interacting with the artwork exhibited at Leitrim Sculpture Centre, Ireland, Shane Finan it seemed like we were moving closer together (2021).

3 Technological Entanglements

When developing artistic projects with more-than-human collaboration, it is not enough to consider only the human and nonhuman lives that are entangled, but one must also consider the abstract strings that entangle them. This includes the geology and technology that supports an artistic practice or underpins a concept. Donna Haraway’s idea of using string figures, where many interlinked ideas and objects are brought together to show their connections (Haraway 2016), is a helpful methodology for artistic research. This can lead to a deeper understanding of the role of technology, deep time, and other complex factors that can be considered in collaborative practice.

In affluent Western societies, much of the technology and human engagement with labour is invisible. The components in my mobile phone and the threads on my shirt are the result of hidden moments of collaboration and coming-together that exploit the invisible humans, and beyond this the invisible critters that are part of the chain of production. Within those processes are actors: worms and beetles, humans and bees, trees and fungi. They are rendered invisible through processes of abstraction.

When the underlying technology is visible, it is often left visible only because there is no other option. Disability activists Sara Hendren and Caitlin Lynch wrote in their manifesto that ‘All technology is assistive’, arguing that technologies make bodies more-than what they were (Hendren and Caitrin 2016). They posit that there is an ableist underpinning to hiding the technologies that assist a body. If it is possible to hide a prosthesis (such as with contact lenses instead of glasses), then the performance of the person with issues in seeing is a performance of an able-bodied human. When such invisibility is not possible, as with a wheelchair, this visibility of prosthesis becomes an admittance of a body that is incapable of doing a thing itself.

The invisibility of technology is often embraced in methods of artistic display, such as when curators hide cables or disguise screens, or artists dismiss the importance of using digital tablets or phones to document, research or make art. In a collaborative process, it often becomes paramount to show these border-moments that are part of the process between making. Examples occur in other collaborative and iterative projects like Swap Space or simularr,3 which consider a coming together of artists and shared research practices as a way of developing work (Castillo and Rutz 2023).

While FIELD was rooted in a research project, the second project I will present was held together through both research and location, and anchored by a relationship to technological process. In the east of Ireland, there is a large reservoir at Poulaphuca that hosts an assemblage of myth, technology, ecology, and place. Since 2021, six artists have worked on collaborative research on this site, drawing from their own shared and individual perspectives in a project titled Púca in the Machine.4
  1. https://simularr.net (accessed 28 Apr 2025); the original presentation of this research at the Forum for Artistic Research included simularr as a fourth case study, as I was also an artist on this project. However, for succinctness I removed this case study because the project is documented elsewhere in the proceedings.
  2. https://puca.work (accessed 28 Apr 2025)

3.1 Case Study 2: Púca in the Machine (2021–24)

The Poulaphuca reservoir was flooded in the 1930s to create a drinking water reserve and a hydroelectric power station for the newly formed Irish Free State (Fig. 5). It is entangled with technology, as an infrastructural landmark of a particular era when electricity first arrived in Ireland, shortly after gaining independence from Britain. Evictions of humans and nonhumans from the valley remain contentious locally even today. The name of the area, Poulaphuca, translates to ‘the púca’s cave’. This localises an association with the mythological shapeshifter Púca who was said to inhabit the area in the form of a metre-long fish. Púca can travel between what Manchán Magan tells us was ‘the alltar’ and ‘the ceantar’ (Magan 2022), the above and below worlds of Irish mythology. And the entanglement of electricity and magic mean that perhaps a hydroelectric power station would give Púca free rein to travel through the pumps, pistons, and wires uninhibited. The research was localised, with the artists visiting the site several times, and later responding through their individual practices.

On Púca in the Machine the research was collaborative, but each artist was free to take whatever they chose back to their studios or workspaces to develop new works individually. The technologies of artistic practice drew from radio and textiles to electronics and print. This project was set up specifically to give space to the individual responses, but it was striking how one iteration was significantly different from the next, a result of the particularities of the shared research. On the first iteration, the focus leaned quite heavily on the separation of worlds above and below the lake, such as in Niamh Fahy’s print series Edgelands that amplified the ever-changing shoreline and its irregularity, mirrored in Alannah Robins’ installation that presented the lost worlds of forest that never was (Fig. 6). On the second iteration, in 2023, the life forms under the water took prominence, with writer Robert Barrett penning a radio play from the perspective of those humans and nonhumans whose souls remain under the water. Margaret O’Brien’s kinetic installation also gave voice, this time to microbial life of the lake shore by using their natural conductivity to produce sound through sensors and speakers (Fig. 7) while artist Saidhbhín Gibson used film and textiles to present voices across time. Over two iterations, the same site of research led to very different responses from artists, not only individually but also collectively from one year to the next.

The coming together of the work in publication and exhibition was where this collective narrative found its voice. Rather than presenting a truth, there were six truths, each unique, each responsive. Audience reactions locally tended to result in lauding of the storytelling perspectives, where people had not considered the richly entwined myth or nonhuman stories with the more literal history of eviction. When the work was brought to non-local audiences, it had the effect of first making visible this unique place, and then second introducing story as a way to understand it. The coming-together of artistic perspectives was key to unlocking this.

Figure 5: Poulaphuca Reservoir was built in the 1930s and is still an active dam and reservoir today, photograph © Shane Finan.

Figure 6: In the 2022 edition, Niamh Fahy’s works from the series Edgelands dealt with the tension between planes of shore and water (first photograph © Louis Haugh) while Alannah Robins’ sculptural installations considered the shore from the perspective of how the tides are moved by human not lunar cycles (second photograph © Shane Finan).

Figure 7: Margaret O’Brien’s sculptural work Lament of Poulaphuca (first photograph courtesy of the artist) gave voice to the microbial life underwater at the reservoir, while writer Robert Barrett penned a radio play (second photograph © Shane Finan) that gave voice in a different manner.

4 Finding a Language

When considering loss of environment or culture, Judith Butler’s concept of ‘grievability’ becomes a powerful activist and artistic tool (Butler 2020). Butler presents the idea as an abstract one that requires complex empathy: we need to be able to imagine our grief for something that we could lose in order to value it enough. We need things to be grievable so that we do not want to lose them.

As mentioned in the last section, the distance of deep time or planetary space insulates many people from the effects of grief or shock toward invisible labour and process. Artists are often tasked with finding the things that are not prominent and giving them a life that is then valued by others. And being complex, grievability needs a complex language. It is present in artistic work that situates itself in place but also in rhizomatic thoughts and practices.

The third and final example I will present is an Irish ‘wake’ for an animate mountain. A wake is a mourning ritual that takes place in many cultures before a body is buried. A body is left in an open coffin for one evening for friends and family to visit, and to say goodbye. As part of the process, an almost mystical array of activities manifests in a collaborative effort to prepare the space, keep people fed, and ensure hospitality. When done right, the family in mourning does almost nothing.

4.1 Case Study 3: Waking the Land

In Manorhamilton, Ireland, I am part of a collective called ^ (in keeping with finding language, our name is a symbol that can be performed or written down, but not spoken). Our collective came together in 2022 to experiment with artistic research related to landscape, technology, ecology, myth, and other-than-human relationships. We all have different skills and practices, with shared interests. We share responsibility for group decisions and co-run a 3-storey artist workspace in the same town. In 2023, we developed a project around the ritual of a wake for Benbo Mountain, a mountain that is still very much alive.

Benbo overlooks Manorhamilton and is visible from nearly any place in the town. Recently, heavy metal prospecting licences have been handed out for Benbo and other surrounding mountains. If mining goes ahead, there will be environmental and biodiversity damage and loss. We chose to create a wake for the mountain while it still lives.

Six different social and community-facing events took place over six weeks in August and September 2022, five led by other artists and facilitated by us (Fig. 8). The sixth was performed by us (Fig. 9). The mountain and the venue were both living participants in the social events.

This project was extremely localised, but has resonance beyond the local. To research, we spent time walking, being-with and thinking-through Benbo and its alive-ness. The process of research together was complemented by the rituals as performed by other artists who repeatedly deterritorialised our space, bringing other perspectives and learnings. One of the artists, Cróna Gallagher, brought photographs of a hare because she had once climbed the mountain and found one at the top. Hares are associated with transformation myths in Ireland, and also with death. Cróna encountered a hare at the death of both of her parents, entangling the mountain with her own personal grief, and bringing this to a collective conversation through artistic media. Another artist, Sonya Swarte, has walked virtually every path on the mountain. Her interest, as someone who had moved to the country from the Netherlands over 20 years ago, was in finding a home, tracing a path, and she invited visitors to create homes from her home recycling pile. The idea of home opened up conversations about nomadism and attachment to place, which came out during the process of making. Writer Dónal O’Kelly and farmer James Gilmartin provided an unexpected climate soliloquy, performing what could be described a sermon at the half-way point.

The sixth and final social event was organised around a large textile artwork, a banner that we made as a collective. We presented this with writing, sketches, collages, and animations made from the research.

In one reading, and this is my reading, it was the mountain and not the humans that activated the space. We were participants, we were its subjects and it was the artist. Once this is accepted as truth, our actions can be likened to those of the sharks following blood: instinctual and immediate.

Figure 8: ^ Waking the Land (2023), social events with drinks, food, and collective art-making; pictured event was hosted by visual artist Cróna Gallagher photograph © Shane Finan.

Figure 9: The banner was made collectively as an act of rememberance for a living mountain, and was also the centre-piece for the sixth and final collective social event ^ Waking the Land (2023). Photograph © Cían Flynn.

5 Another entanglement is possible

In the Western canon, art is often seen as an individual practice that involves the creation of objects. Such objects often fall into categories that are easily defined: sculpture, painting, drawing, for example. Each art form has a multitude of technological and social relationships within Western art, as part of traditions that have spanned centuries. Each has embedded prejudices of colonialism and classism, for example by placing emphasis on media that are expensive and inaccessible or over-valuing processes that are learned in high art education rather than community or social settings.

Many projects in recent years have reimagined how to give collective voice to humans and nonhumans who are part of a narrative. Examples include the Chilean pavilion at the 2022 Venice Biennale, Turba Tol Hol-Hol Tol,5 a work of collaboration between humans, moss, and bog (Bustamante et al. 2022). The international team of artists, scientists and researchers brought the shared loss of boglands from Chile and Norway into an immersive installation that included a perfume, a book, and a projected video artwork on 360-degree bio-material. The smell and feel of the bog was ever-present, as was the lens of the filmmakers, who did not forget their own presence (Fig. 10). Even the fact that the land was placeless spoke volumes, as it was brought to the pavilion from two hemispheres. The project’s refusal to be situated challenged the single-state nature of the pavilions at the Biennale.

The Silent World was made when film as an art form was still being treated as low art in the mid-20th century. Jacques Cousteau’s works featured many humans and nonhumans, yet the voice was individual. Even his own crew became subjects on the other side of the camera, less observer than observed.

Today, perhaps, Cousteau’s documentary could not be made, and that is a good reflection on a change in attitude toward the nonhuman over the last 70 years. But what else could change in the next 70? Could we see a story told by the whales and sharks, by those that were not on the boat, by the cameras themselves? Perhaps collective working can offer a beginning through entangled individual responses, which together increase the value of both our uniqueness and our shared sociality.
  1. https://www.labiennale.org/en/art/2022/chile and https://turbatol.org (accessed 28 Apr 2025)

Figure 10: Chilean pavilion at Venice 2022, photograph by Ugo Carmeni from ‘In Venice Today’ https://www.invenicetoday.com/en/exhibitions/Biennale/chilean-pavilion-chile-venice-biennale-of-art.htm (accessed 07 May 2025).

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank the organisers, editors and reviewers at the Forum for Artistic Research for all the clear guidance and support. In the paper, I have attempted to entangle three projects and many years of research. Each is a project that had human and nonhuman collaborators, drawing from myth, ecology, science, technology, folklore, philosophy, and language. I am very much ill-equipped to tell this story alone, because it is a story of many humans and nonhumans, and my words will only give one perspective. So please bear in mind that in this telling, another would tell it all very differently, but I am the only connection that directly links the projects. I hope that I do them enough justice. I would love to thank and acknowledge every other participant voice but it would be impossible. All the mothers and others, all the people who spoke a sentence that became a world, all the trees that filled our lungs – there are too many to acknowledge and be grateful to. So I offer a few words to thank them all, in the language that is and is not my own, before I begin: Míle buíochas gach daoine, gach anam agus beo a chuir isteach sa na mheitheail.

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