“We are on the cusp of a transitional moment in human history.
We have to be conscious about the decisions we make in the near future…” says Prideaux.
We are failing to protect wildlife and marching towards a tragic future where the world is monetized and wildness is gone.
We can design a different future – if we want to hear Birdsong After the Storm.
The deep, pungent smell of elephant musth will not be carried on the wind.
Humans may survive, but the world will be brittle and harsh.
The installations are arranged according to the church’s cruciform design.
Each section – nave, transept, chancel – is used a metaphor for one of the three kinds of music in the Middle Ages, from the ‘lowest’ form of music-making ( (2005), created especially for this exhibition.
It quickens the woodlands with liveliness, as to be quick also means to be alive, germinating its seedling songs in the leaves, inseminating the air. A little riff-raff of sparrows chitter in the hedge.
Blue tits and great tits chip in a divertimento in hemidemisemiquavers. A robin fills its little red sail with wind and sails into the day. (Not solely a metaphor, that: a bird’s flight muscles are attached to what is called a keel bone.) As soon as I hear it, I want to describe it, as if once I have breathed in birdsong, I must transpose it into a human key and breathe it out in language.