Abstract
This performance was written in 2024 for the Special Interest Group in Autoethnography, in honour of Norman Denzin and his work and presence to the SIG and autoethnography, and for our community at this time.
Flint Black, Grey Sharp as a knife point Smooth as wet sand Breaking down the cliff face fine-grained, foliated, formed by repetitive layering homogeneous, metamorphic Fragments, foraged Make a transatlantic journey in the hand, and offered, maybe as A Lure? An invitation? A calling card? Without need for engraved ornaments, embossed lettering, or a coat of arms Our cliffs call, through We, present its presence evoke consideration This is our land, it is now here, take it, or come see Come share Strike these pieces together, we make fire Stay grounded, to what we are becoming
In early May 2024, two researchers head out to the cliffs near Porthcothan, in the Parish of St Eval, on Treyarnon Bay in Cornwall. This is the very last landmass on the UK mainland. They walk high above the sands, eye to eye with the kestrels and the seagulls, past Long Cove, Rowan Cove, Fox Cove, Warren Cove, Peppar Cove, waiting for inspiration, inviting insight, open and attentive to what is around them, and what they might take from this environment to infuse their community. They turn on a recorder, ears attuned.
They had been asked by colleagues – their family of autoethnographers with whom for the past 20 years they had met and shared sustenance – to offer a reflection on the theme of ‘present/ce’. To ‘Write, speak and move through space in/with both “present/ce” and “tense/time,” troubling the waters to arrive in a new present’.
They didn’t know how to achieve that end, not in words or theories. They only knew their journey, their insights, their conscious workings out, could only begin by the ocean, by an expanse of space where horizons meld sea and sky, where movement and refusal to be moved, touch and caress. The ocean, never still; the wind, ever present; the sand constantly shifting in unseen swirls; the cliffs eroding and faulting; the earth immovable.
The words ‘present/ce’ and ‘tense/time’ was each a play-on-words, a play-on-bodies and being, a play-on-being present, or maybe, of having a presence, about being in the body (not singular), aware of how the past moves into the present and the present we inhabit is becoming the past, as we live it. The invited reflection was to be mindful of the now, which for their community, in that moment, meant an arrival at a departure – a mark in the sand they were crossing. A junction, turning point, a decision and a death.
For the two researchers, the cliffs and the rock that formed their shape had a metaphorical influence on their thinking and awareness. They listened to the birds, they listened to their footsteps, to their own breath, to the crashing of waves, to the wind, unharnessed. But, in that moment it was the flint, the slate, that drew their interest, that caught their attention, that provoked imagination that called to them to touch, to feel, to rub a thumb on the smooth surface, to test the sharpness of the ragged edge.
They both knew from their childhoods, from lessons at school, that Ancient Britons had used flint to make fire, to create and chisel weapons for hunting, for cooking and cutting. And they knew that ‘round here’ slate roof tiles still give protection, and slate paving stones still mark the route to an opening, an invitation to step this way.
Of course, both also knew slate is found in the Arctic and used by Inuit to create blades for ulus. And they knew this fine-grained rock exists throughout China, Japan, Australia, Brazil, and Europe. They also knew it had been mined by Welsh men in Llanberis, by Scots men at Ballachulish, by Irish men at Valentia Island. And in Cornwall, Cornish men still quarry Slate in Delabole.
But why this, of all the elements ‘present’? How was it speaking to this moment, to their community? To life and death?
The two researchers knew a little about Chinese and Japanese gardens. They had from time to time discovered one or the other on their travels and sat, and been nourished by what lay before them. Most times simple, most times precise, almost always captivating. What appealed was how, in miniature form, the geometric shapes and ornate plants could be both solitary and contemplative and seemed to evoke awareness of a bigger natural world. They noticed that the placement of small ponds, or rocks and stones, or by the patterns created by raking sand, it presented a juxtaposition in harmony. A sense of unity between dynamic and static, horizontal and vertical. The irregular rock, next to soft moss. And flint, one tiny shard, cleft from a cliff face, was the simplest manifestation of this contrast, smooth yet sharp.
The wisdom they took from this was to consider what lives in the space between sharp and smooth? And it was simple. Just as a rock is placed in an expanse of sand, just so, in the Zen garden, in that moment, in that presence, in the present, was room for the imagination. For Norman Denzin, well, they knew his Utopian dream (see Denzin, 2003), the one that we/they/us need to continue to imagine.
She took the handful of flint shards that she had selected from the Cornish cliffs, carried purposefully to the Special Interest Group in a paper tissue, and walked into the assembled group. Leaning forwards, row by row she stretched forth her open palm; a reveal and an offering.
In tandem, he stood his ground, guitar plucked gently and filled the air with dense, primal melody and rhythm birthed from the ocean and the cliffs.
I’ve got a heart getting lost in space I had a heart – it just slipped back into second place All my tears come to nothing All my fears add up to nothing When an ocean breaks over my heart We’ve got a plan getting lost some place We had a plan – a laughing world and a smiling face But all the lies just keep on coming All the stories that we’re telling With an ocean of fear in our hearts Sweet revelation Shine a light on if you will Give some kind of indication Which way we ought to turn Which way we ought to turn Have you got a heart, getting lost in space? Do you have a heart? Or did you push it into second place? Then all the tears will keep on coming And all the years add up to nothing Until an ocean breaks over my heart An ocean breaks over my heart
In this communion of sorts, one by one every flint in the open palm found a new home. Now, in pockets, or a purse, wrapped in a tissue, in a wash bag, a jewellery box maybe, or in another secret place chosen by each recipient, lives a small piece of England. Sharp enough to be able to cut, yet smooth and soft enough to be a calling card. Without need for engraved ornaments, embossed lettering, or a coat of arms, it is a living invitation. Come visit. Walk our land, even as we have walked and stood with you.
Begin to imagine.
Footnotes
Declaration of conflicting interests
The authors declared no potential conflicts of interest with respect to the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.
Funding
The authors received no financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.
Note
Author Biographies
