Annelotte Lammertse
Anna Pajęcka: How was it for you to work at the Ujazdowski Castle especially compared to other institutions you’ve collaborated with?
Annelotte Lammertse: I really appreciated the time I spent there. The biggest advantage of the place is, of course, the park – the green area surrounding the Castle. For my practice this was ideal, because I work a lot with plants and with the histories of how they are used and managed. In that sense, it was an extremely stimulating context to be in.
What I also value very much about the Castle is its strong focus on research. You are given time to develop a project instead of being constantly pushed to produce new work – even though that pressure is usually part of my practice as well. Having the possibility to slow things down and really engage in research and just be in a place is rare, but very important.
Another thing that stands out is that the process itself is considered valuable. At the Castle, there is space for a process-based approach to work, which aligns very closely with how I like to work. That is not the case in every institution.
You mentioned that your practice is very process-based. How long does your process usually take, and what role does time play in your work?
It really depends on the project. At some point I need a certain pressure to bring things to a close, because otherwise I could easily continue researching indefinitely. The three months I had for research at Ujazdowski Castle were a perfect time frame for me.
Time is very important, but so is situatedness – where you are, and how that specific place influences the work: how it relates to what you make and how you make it. During my residency, I worked mainly around a set of plants that have specific relations to this month. I researched the relations of the plants and sites to history, culture/folklore and biological circumstances. I looked into the particular phases of their growth and how they are visible in various locations across the city. Plants are bound to a place. They form a place, absorb it and set it in motion. In that sense, time and place are always key when I ask myself how to work with them; what the plants tell about a place and what kinds of relationships are present.
I’d like to ask about the role of seasons in your work. Are they important to you? Do they influence your practice? You mentioned that you were here in June, in the summer. Is there a “right” season for your work, or how do seasons matter?
During my residency, I noticed that the month of June shares its name with the insect czerwiec. An insect that lives on the roots of several wild plants, but was mostly found on the perennial knawel [czerwiec trwały]. The female cochineal insects used to be harvested in the month of June for the red pigment they produce. I found the traces that are visible in the Polish language in relation to the insect, the colour red and the plant beautiful. How natural processes and relations to plants were related to seasonality and time. At the same time, it’s quite shocking how these relations have been completely erased from our current society. I’ve been working with dyes and pigments for a long time, but before I arrived in the residency I had never heard of the Polish cochineal. For me, this says a lot about dyes and the history and relations we hold with plants and natural pigments – how we treat them, relate to them and how their presence and existence is completely ignored. These traces show the importance they once had in forming culture, the economy and trade relations. At the same time, we must deal with a history of relating to these plants that was based on notions of extractivism and overharvesting.
My research is about these traces. Traces of dye plants/insects and how they manifest themselves in contemporary society, and specifically in urban landscapes. Raising questions about the precarious states these plants and sites are often in. What these landscapes can tell us about our relationship and histories with the plants – in this case, with this specific insect.
Where did you find this plant and the cochineal?
The plant used to grow almost everywhere in Poland. It’s a wild plant that thrives on pure sand, so it would appear along roadsides and at the edges of fields, in all in-between spaces. It was heavily overharvested and the economy around the dye started to decline and collapsed from the 16th century onwards with the start of colonisation. The cochineal from South America, mostly Mexico, started to become the main source for the red pigment. Today, the perennial knawel is found in just a few locations. I could find some in the in-between spots and at the edges of Warsaw. The other host plants are more common in the city, but the insect is hardly found anymore on any of the host plants.
What exactly did you do during your residency at Ujazdowski Castle? What idea did you come here with?
My idea was to work with the park: its history and the plants that grow there. At the same time, I wanted to look more closely at wastelands and border areas in the city. How these different spaces could be related to each other. I was interested in how the city relates to greenery and plants – which species appear in these marginal places, what their histories are in relation to dyes, and what these landscapes can tell us about our present-day relationship with plants.
You organised a workshop on the day of the summer solstice. Could you tell me more about it, and why you chose that particular day? What does it mean to you?
I chose the summer solstice primarily because of its connection to the month of June. This is the time when the insect mates and lays its eggs on the roots of the plant, and it can be harvested. Historically, the insect and the plant are often linked to the St John’s wort. Both hold a long tradition of being harvested on the summer solstice, when they are believed to have their strongest, magical power – in relation to the sun being at its highest point.
The flower of the St John’s wort is connected with the colour red because inside its flowers the plants holds a specific red/purple pigment that creates a symbolic association with blood. It produces a strong healing oil: when the flowers are left for three months in oil in the sun, it slowly turns from yellow to a red colour. During the workshop, we prepared this healing oil. Creating a carrier of sun for the dark winter months, carrying some of the summer sun into the darker season. Along with the healing oil, we also drank a juice that contained traces of the cochineal insect. The insect used to be applied in healing remedies, whereby textiles were often an important transmitter.
For me, the workshop was a way to bring together different uses and meanings of the plants, and to think of them as a tools of protection on a number of layers. Plants use pigments as protection mechanisms to survive in their surroundings. Throughout history, however, humans have used these plants and insects as tools of protection as well. During the workshop, we investigated and questioned these overlaps.
I asked another Common Field resident – Julia Ciunowicz – what it means to treat plants as subjects – as more than tools or materials. What about you? Do you also treat plants and other non-human organisms as subjects?
In my work, I always try to position plants as the main characters. Within our current hierarchy of how we deal with non-human beings, plants are at the very bottom. They have long been underestimated and used as mere backdrops in art and art history. They are seen as mere objects to be extracted. In my work, I try to bring all the different relationships and agencies of the plants to the foreground. The multiplicity of relations and knowledge productions is, for me, a tool to get away from this one-sided view relating to the plant. It’s about finding ways to let the plants “speak” for themselves. For example, in looking into what the pigment production is doing for the plants or the insect’s body itself. Looking for this balance and bringing in different voices is something I return to again and again.
It is always a question and research of how to do this: how to balance our tendency to project our own ideas onto the plants and how not to use them as a mere object or tools, how we can let them simply exist as they are and still form relationships with them, seeing them in their own way of being and with their own intelligence.
Earlier you used the phrase “relationships”. What does “relationships” mean in your artistic practice?
For me, it means everything. My work is essentially about constantly forming new relationships – with plants, with humans, with insects – and exploring how these relationships can take shape. We are all relational beings; we are continuously engaged in relations of various kinds. It is very important to me that this is reflected in the work. That is also why, in my work, I always try to implement different voices in, for example, in the formats of workshops. As well as the one in June, we organised one in August, where we invited people to work, write and read together on these topics. The outcomes that emerged from these meetings will be incorporated into the project, so there will be a multiplicity of voices incorporated.
Ultimately, the work is about the relations we have with colour, plants and pigments. Plants live with us through their surroundings, and the same is true of colour. Like plants, colours are not static, they are something that is alive with its own rhythm, time and energy.
In my conversations with the residents, the idea that “relationships are everything” appears again and again. It seems to be a common thread between all of you. I also read that your practice focuses on “unwanted” plants and marginal landscapes. What draws you to these specific places and plants?
I find the broader idea of “weeds” interesting, and the fact that we hardly use them anymore. They tend to appear in the borderlands of our cities, in the in-between urban spaces. What I find particularly striking is that many of these plants are now extremely vulnerable – a lot of them are on red lists of threatened species.
This is due to over-composting, increased nitrogen levels and of course climate change. Bare, sandy soils are disappearing, leaving the plants that depend on them in the most precarious position. Very often, these are precisely the flowers and plants that produce pigments. That connection is crucial to my research.
Let me ask about the bigger picture. If you had to name one thing, what is most important to you in your work?
What fascinates me about plants is their multi-layered nature – their complexity in relation to our society. They are embedded on so many different levels: in climate, of course, but also in social relations, cultural, economic and very important ritual uses and practices. Plants are community formers, and with that they also form culture which we are part of.
I think it is a very Western habit to isolate just one property of a plant. For me, it is all about interconnectedness: the ways in which plants and humans are entangled, and how, in our current crisis, we need to find different ways of living together.
Finally, do you think art institutions can truly be allies in ecological change?
I think they can – especially in terms of creating awareness and developing programmes around relationality, and around how we understand and emphasise its importance.
At the same time, there is always the risk that ecology becomes just another checkbox – one of many criteria an institution has to fulfil. It can easily turn into a buzzword. On the one hand, these topics are crucial and must be addressed and explained; on the other hand, I am wary of them becoming purely symbolic.
This is also why it is important for me to work with others. I don’t believe that I can bring about major change on my own in any direct or immediate way. Collective work allows us to see what might be possible together.
Sometimes it feels as if we are in a bubble of people who are all engaged with similar issues, who share a great deal of common ground and largely agree with each other within the institution. The most difficult task is to open this up to a wider audience. In that sense, an institution can be a very powerful tool – though it remains a challenge.
