Walking through the city and collecting words. Words picked up from the street: written words, spoken words, words enunciating sensual experience, funny words, sad words… Words measure the city and create regions, similar to the incoherent and coherent fields of a speculative atlas. Like plants, they are plucked and gently placed in a herbarium. Wordplants /plantwords: classified, declassified. They reify and display stages of material transformations. Words are lines, weaving the texture through which the city can be read.

“Herbarium of Words” is a project within a series of artistic research collaborations, addressing several practices of interrelation between space and language: the potential of creative writing as a method for spatial production – in this case, within a city; the spatial agency of a book; the specific mediality of a herbarium as a repository for spatio-temporal intra-actions (Barad 1999), tracing and archiving our experience of the city with and through words; and the interweaving of – and walking through – various textual and textural genres: poetry, essay, bibliography, diagrams, time-space-drawings / video stills. These practices are articulated through the lyric essay “five” by Thomas Ballhausen; essayistic fragments elaborating on our methodological choices; a bibliographic catalogue of our references, which we conceive not as referential material outside of the project but as an active participant in it, acting as a literary genre with a spatiality of its own (Ballhausen 2022); and a series of video stills, “herbarium 5” by Elena Peytchinska operating as more-than-texts (Peytchinska 2022) and reenacting the textu(r)al body of Ballhausen’s essay by exploring the visual, spatial and processual potential of a herbarium.

We comprise our practices in a methodological meshwork, the procedural operativeness of which weaves the layers of our various approaches to and experiences of the city (and its texts) into each other and onto the concrete spatiality of this essay on the printed page and the digital surface.

Three main influences activate the creation of the lyric essay “five” and saturate the experience of walking across Vienna while trying to avoid bumping into curious or even worried-looking pedestrians: the theory and practice of Psychogeography, the aesthetic strategies of the artistic movement Oulipo, and the concept of referential fiction, within the framework of which the selected sources included the first sentences of fairy tales, examples from the history of literature, and a historical textbook on botany. These references act as methodological preconditions for the production of the lyric essay and prompt the choice of five Viennese streets where the gathering of word-material takes place: Kaiserstraße, Burggasse, Berggasse, Ferdinandgasse, Drachengasse. The writing of the text traces the writer’s subjective experience embedded in the preconceived referential programmatic, thus becoming contingent lyric cartography.

The video still series “herbarium 5” reenacts and transposes the practice along and through which “five” emerges into the specific archival spatiality of a herbarium. The fragments of the lyric essay, spacing themselves across the printed (or digital) surface, become streets: streets made of letters, words, sentences – found, invented, imagined, or referred to – which could be read not as a completed literary work but as a territory endowed with fields of attraction, material and semantic intensities, various dynamics of flow, percolation, disruption, sliding. The transposition of the gathered word-material into a digital time-based medium proceeds along the following scientific and artistic practices: the multioperative, archival practice of generating a herbarium, Jane Rendell’s critical practice of Site-Writing, and Derek Jarman’s technique (and aesthetics) of notation.

A herbarium aggregates various medial and spatial articulations: the diagrammatics of classifying and archiving of the gathered plants, the time involved in drying them, and the resulting de- and trans-formation of the specimens. A herbarium could also act as a personal notebook, which resonates with the subjective and somewhat random experience of a walker. Jane Rendell’s practice of Site-Writing – addressing spatial aspects of critical writing, both in regard to the situatedness of the critic and the site-specificity of writing itself – offers a viable methodological tool for disentangling the complex spatio-political meshwork of a herbarium. We encounter the method of herborizing ideas, artifacts, and plants in Derek Jarman’s sketchbooks, where the gathered material trans-forms into the future film. By reenacting the duration of plant-drying, the multioperativeness of specimen-gathering, and the diagrammatic articulation of their organization, Jarman develops a notation technique similar to that of the herbarium for his research.

The decision to transpose the word-material of the lyric essay “five” not into a video but into fragments/snapshots of a presumed, animated video is additionally motivated by Karen O’Rourke’s expression “Drawing with time and space” (O’Rourke 2013, pp. 154-160). In the homonymous chapter of her seminal book “Walking and Mapping: Artists as Cartographers,” O’Rourke observes the work of several filmmakers (e.g., Patrick Keiller, Marie Preston, Jana Sterback, Gus Van Sant) who apply the method of Psychogeography in their work and/or use filming as a technique for walking, replacing the “rapid-fire cutting, zooming, and panning” (O’Rourke 2013, p. 154) of the film’s postproduction through the slow gaze (and gate) of the camera. For our project, we adopt the idea of time-space-drawings as the medial extension of a video still, thus emphasizing the temporal aspect of transposing the word-material into another spatial articulation, its processing, as well as the contingency of diagrammatic movements; however, suspending the expectation for completion embodied in a video format. Consequently, the video stills activate a mediality of their own as snapshots, marking the unknown duration and suspending the endpoint of a potential video.

Psychogeography could be described as a theory and practice of both conscious and modifying ways to deal with the realities and given structures of the urban landscape (Coverley 2010; Sidaway 2021). The main strategies of Psychogeography are détournement, which refers to productive misappropriation, and dérive, a playful roaming, often based on chance, like the roll of a dice. Examples from literary history that make use of these strategies of poetic exploration are, in fact, much older than Guy Debord’s and his Situationist movement, which often comes to mind when thinking of them. Early examples we could identify are Daniel Defoe’s “A Journal of the Plague Year” (1722) or William Blake’s long poem “Jerusalem” (1804). This practice of associative mapping can be traced through the literature of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Baudelaire, influenced by Edgar Allan Poe’s “Man of the Crowd” (1840), characterized the flâneur in his famous essay “Le peintre de la vie modern” (1863). One can also find traces of these specific correlations between literature and urban spaces in Louis Aragon’s “Le paysan de Paris” (1926), André Breton’s “Nadja” (1928) or Julio Cortazar’s “Rayuela” (1963), to name a few titles. The list goes on and includes such diverse writers as J. G. Ballard, Dave McKean, Iain Sinclair or Peter Ackroyd (Ballhausen 2012). A more recent example of great interest is Ben Lerner‘s novel “Leaving the Atocha Station” (2011). His book, among others, not only proves that concepts and practices of Psychogeography are still intact and of interest – the text itself reflects upon the way it is produced and shows its textual as well as spatial conditions: 

“On these days I worked on what I called translation. I opened the Lorca more or less at random, transcribed the English recto onto a page of my first notebook, and began to make changes, replacing a word with whatever word I first associated with it and/or scrambling the order of the lines, and then I made whatever changes these changes suggested to me. Or I looked up the Spanish word for the English word I wanted to replace, and then replaced that word with an English word that approximated its sound (‘Under the arc of the sky’ became ‘Under the arc of the cielo’, which became ‘Under the arc of the cello’). I then braided fragments of the prose I kept in my second notebook with the translations I had thus produced (‘Under the arc of the cello/I open the Lorca at random’, and so on).” (Lerner 2011, p. 16)

Another beginning.

Tighten the knots. Perhaps steps.

What that means anyway: making a beginning.

To halt, picking, looking.

When it comes to the parts of flowers, the number five is dominant.

Take in the composition, roll the dice. Drop it.

Repeat after me:

Once upon a time.

It happened.

A long time ago.

A king had a daughter, who was the fairest of them all, but proud and cocky.

In days of yore, when wishing still helped.

Statutory beginnings. Gather yourself, put in order.

The first kind of system we may call artificial or practical, one of the second kind we may call naturally or scientific.

What does it even mean: making a beginning.

The classification given refers to a peculiarity which all plants of that kind share.

A quotation from the very readable study “Many Subtle Channels: In Praise of Potential Literature” by David Levin Becker reads:

“How the Oulipo, and the principles it incarnates, can make unlikely pairings—of people, of ideas, of ways of life—seem not only plausible but also promising, not only interesting but also indispensable” (Levin Becker 2012, p. 6).

Oulipo is an acronym for Ouvroir de littérature potentielle, meaning Workshop for Potential Literature. The members of the international Oulipo, which was founded after the Second World War and still exists today, do not consider themselves a typical movement, but depending on which member one asks, see themselves as more of a secret laboratory of literary structures, a group of rats building a labyrinth from which they plan to escape, or even as a living novel. The group invented and experimented with literary constraints, pointing towards the fact that nothing like a natural text exists, but many ways to be inspired. Their writings, often dealing with the urban landscape, follow these rhetorical, mathematical, and further formal constraints, producing a vast body of literary works. Among their members are Raymond Queneau, François Le Lionnais, Italo Calvino, Harry Matthews, and even one fictional character. One of the most influential members of Oulipo is French writer Georges Perec. His “Species of Spaces,” initially published in 1974 within the series “L’Espace critique” edited by Paul Virilio, explores space and attempts to exhaust it. Perec’s spatial taxonomy begins with the book page, traversing various spatial articulations – the bed, the room, the street, the house, the city, the country – until it reaches “space” (Perec 2000). His book is not an attempt to provide us with a coherent theory of space but a literary attempt to rethink how we deal with it. His tiny but significant book includes a number of text types: a description of paintings, mini-essays, songs, notes for further projects, and quotes from other works. “Species of Spaces” is dedicated to the painter Pierre Getzler, with whom Perec exchanged a couple of letters about Paul Klee’s work. Like Klee’s paintings, which display their production process, Perec’s book does not represent the visible but aims at a literary, transformed, performative, and unexpected visibility.

Referring to William S. Burroughs and Brion Gysin, the Dutch writer Wilfried Hou Je Bek defined Psychogeography as “city space cut up” (O’Rourke 2013, p. 7), a bottom-up approach towards given structures and conditions. If we take the Oulipo notion of an increased understanding of literature seriously, Psychogeography is not only a set of writing instruments but, as Karen O’Rourke puts it, “a toolbox for reading” (O’Rourke 2013, p. 6).

The ever-changing object of the book is directly linked to this. In “Elements of Typographic Style,” Robert Bringhurst pointed out: “If the book appears to only be a paper machine, produced at their own convenience by other machines, only machines will want to read it” (Bringhurst 2013, p. 143). This is also true of our approach. When it comes to books and cities, we are obviously in need not only of creative writing but also of creative reading.

Once Upon a time.

Open, closed.

Action toys, breezy fashion, the clanging chain of a happily leashed one.

A shirt made as if of chrome, this leaf is called labium.

Rooms to rehearse in, to exhibit in, the way of the tracks.

A guest performance, looking for actors to join in.

The individual plants differ from each other in varying degrees.

The danger of an unhappy chance encounter,

bottled moments.

En gros, en detail.

Both types of reproduction alternate on a regular basis.

This effect is called generational succession.

Intersections, crossings.

The third leading influence for the production of “five” is a specific source of historical scholarly literature, an Austrian textbook on botany from 1924 (Wettstein/Schnarf 1924), printed by the Viennese publisher Hölder Pichler Tempsky, a famous publisher of school books still in existence. The sentences interweaved in the body of the lyric essay were selected on a non-linear as well as non-structural basis. This referential practice becomes a methodological strategy, thus mapping all topics and terms included in our project. The decision to obtain detailed bibliographic information reveals the concept of bibliography as an autoptic exploration of a space for thinking, reading, and writing. The resulting overlaps, duplications, and contradictions are deliberately taken into account, claiming nothing less than the bibliography as a literary space and text type. This means redeeming traceability and reference, but it also means going beyond the traditional function of bibliographies. Therefore, bibliographies could be understood as formally designed aesthetic propositions and referential fiction.

It happened.

You’re right on this one.

Milky glass, no use calling for a locksmith.

Take out the maps, who is taking whom.

Don’t step on the line, graffiti walls all around.

Trespassers will be prosecuted.

We distinguish, according to the function of the texture, the following main categories:

Vintage, second hand, colour laundry, extra beautiful.

No tragedy, just common shoplifting.

It’s easy to be a nude on film, dumbstruck.

Montage, alterations, a tailor’s offer.

Eavesdropping, line by line.

Peep Show, mend the look, please contact us.

The specific book-type of a herbarium displays not only visual elements emerging through the organization and classification of the collected plant specimens but also marks the site where multiple operations and techniques of the preparation process intersect. The five-hundred-year-old practice of herborizing transgresses the frontiers between the scientific and the aesthetic, the objective and the personal. Practices and techniques for gathering, pressing, drying, mounting, labeling, and accessioning the specimens (British Columbia Ministry of Forests 1996; Queensland Herbarium 2016; Forrest et al. 2019) contribute to the aesthetics of collecting, archiving, and classifying (Loreck et al. 2017, p. 78), occasionally also revealing the individual work style of the collectors. In “Field Study,” poet Helen Humphreys describes the democratic activity of creating a herbarium, which was a widespread practice in the nineteenth century, common to both scientists and amateurs, as it required a few simple tools: “a notebook and pencil, magnifying glass, and specimen bag” (Humphreys 2021, p. 23). Some herbarium examples were, due to the multilayered display of their classification systems, similar to notebooks, revealing much more of the personality of the collector rather than exact scientific descriptions. As an example, Humphrey evokes the herbarium notebooks of Austrian botanist Roland Beschel (1928-1971) (Humphreys 2021, p. 27). Yet, the production of early modern herbaria, in the first half of the sixteenth century, reflected the emerging technologies for observation and visualization at that time, the development of which was (among others) motivated by aspirations for colonizing new territories. “The myriad plant specimens brought to Europe as part of the colonial enterprise presented an organisational and epistemological challenge, necessitating new technologies of preservation and description” (Batsaki 2021, p. 394). In contrast, the current challenges of new technologies in processing and reading herbarial data, is the precision (de Lutio et al. 2021) in “extracting DNA to help decode the evolutionary history of related plants” (Humphreys 2021, p. 30), facing polytopic – or even heterotopic (Foucault 2013) – challenges in accessioning the data of the gathered specimens.

A long time ago.

Samurais and goldfish, separated only by glass.

I stay calm, though.

Military, forbidden zone. A well-fitting helmet, a poorly manufactured bulletproof vest.

Please ring.

A deceased girl, walking along the street.

Childbearingly bloated, her tumour.

Please don’t ring.

For rent, for sale, to let.

Titles on display, completely unreadable.

Looking out for signals and colours,

aiming for a harlequin of a text.

This florescence is called anthodium.

Golden, vibrant and knee-length.

The infancy of art in a showcase, dust barely gathered.

The aesthetic appeal of a historic herbarium is thus embedded in a colonial mindset of appropriation – of occupying by collecting. In order to engage critically with this fact, we adopt Jane Rendell’s concept of Site-Writing as a method for productively including this awareness in the process of further transposing the herborized word-material by shifting the focus from collecting to (transmedially) dispersing and distributing.

Throughout her career as an architectural designer, feminist architectural historian and theorist of critical spatial practice, Jane Rendell developed the notion of Site-Writing, emphasizing spatial aspects of art interpretation and the situatedness of both the critic and the critical writing (Rendell 2013, p. 48).In “Site-Writing: The Architecture of Art Criticism” (2010), Rendell outlines her concept by practicing it throughout the very writing of her book, thus stressing the quality of Site-Writing as an ongoing and evolving technique of spatial writing, experimenting with a variety of genres and styles embedded in a plethora of spatially articulated practices, as exemplified in the journal “Site-Reading Writing Quarterly” (https://site-readingwritingquarterly.co.uk/). With Site-Writing, Rendell foregrounds the spatiality and relationality of an artwork, its (critical) interpretation, and the very situatedness of writing:

“Site-Writing [!] is an attempt to explore a form of situated criticism, to investigate the position of the critic, not only in relation to art objects, architectural spaces, and theoretical ideas but through the site of writing itself” (Rendell 2013, p. 53).

In “herbarium 5”, the site-reading of a herbarium becomes a critical site-writing by transposing the word-specimens and entering the spatial agency of another medium, thus avoiding the appropriative gesture of collecting and classifying. The critic’s situated writing involves the site itself, i.e., by experiencing various stages of transformation, the site becomes the writing. Derek Jarman’s sketchbooks offer an example of such transformative operativeness by displaying a notation for working/writing along and through various medial formats and by shifting the focus from the writing critic to the spatial writing of an artist/researcher.

A king had a daughter, who was the fairest of them all,

but proud and cocky.

Here the past piles up, a battered friendship

peeking around the corner.

Yesterday’s ghost, in the midst of a bit of green.

The colour of the bastard hybrid is thus

a crossbreed of its parents.

Jewels, on display or kept secret, petrifactions.

All those damsels in distress/ Half-undressed or even less…

Factories of the possible, not easy to enter.

In his sketchbooks, painter, filmmaker, and writer Derek Jarman collected a variety of materials: images, thoughts, drawings, objects, and plants (Farthing/Webb-Ingall 2013), to prepare for his films. Staged on the surface of the book page, the signification and tactility of the different materials distribute their agencies across the papery terrain, weaving a meshwork of relations, memories, scores, and timelines. Jarman’s practice of taking notes also included reenactments of his paintings – visually as well as procedurally. Accumulating layers of paint, drawings, texts, and dried plants, the pages of the notebooks emerge as herbarium sheets, marking the process of collecting, labeling, and structuring before transposing the various materials into the medial spaces of a film or a video. Particularly, the sketchbooks to “The Last of England” (1987) act as a visual reference for our video still series (Farthing/Webb-Ingall 2013, pp. 128-133) as well as an impulse for the production of the lyric essay “five” and prompted the decision for expanding our spatial exploration beyond the margins of a herbarium by transposing them into the mediality and spatiality of a screen. Applying techniques for generating a personal herbarium, Jarman’s practice of note-taking and processing polymorphic research material activates unconventional archival strategies for (language-based) artistic research. Like tiny ecosystems, or “polyphonic assemblages” (Tsing 2015) of filmmaking, Jarman’s sketchbooks offer an undisciplined methodology for the production of visually and spatially distributed more-than-texts.

In days of yore, when wishing still helped.

Staging, that’s more than just a model.

The number becomes an animal, chiffre through and through.

The exposed writer, halting, transferring the city into a cahier, some characteristics inseparably tied to one other (coupled features).

Peering eyeless, a heart, always someplace else.

(After nature, diagrammed.)

Here we see another part, a flash of scales.

Just standing around like this, he arouses suspicion.

No right to consult or rectify.

People they want us to fall down/But we won’t ever/Touch the ground...

These are the impositions, bottomless.

We distinguish, according to the function of the texture, the following main categories:

Open, closed.

For the production of both the lyrical text and the video stills, the spatial agency of a book emerges as the terrain for connection, transmission, and overlapping of our various practices and methods.

We find spaces in all constituent parts of a book: its volume, the paper surface, the words – written or printed – the letters, and the blanks between them. Thus, writing becomes spacing: a practice of walking across the book page – not occupying, but inventing it. Georges Perec shares his own experience of writing as a process of materialization: the becoming-text is the material process of its affirmation, consolidation, and fixation (Perec 2000, p. 21). At the same time, the text’s fluidity initiates the movement and dynamic of becoming-space. A becoming-space-with- (Peytchinska 2022, p. 144) where blanks and letters are equal participants in the literary production, as famously stated by Stéphane Mallarmé in his poem “Un coup de dés jamais n’abolira le hasard” (1897) (Mallarmé 1945, p. 455). The Mallarméan poetic space “spaces itself out and disseminates itself” (Blanchot 2003, p. 235); it is relational and of great complexity. It is rhythmic and possesses a quality connecting the pre- and postproduction of a poem: the movement of a hammock, which lures Mallarmé into the creation of his “Sonnet en -yx” (Mallarmé 1995, p. 386), is similar to the dissemination of the typographic landscape of the poem on the printed page. In “Diagrammatic Writing” (2013), Johanna Drucker further elaborates on the supposed immobility of a book page, declaring that “[t]he space of an apparently static page is a scene of vectors and forces. Stasis is the illusory effect of choices that bring the elements into balance” (Drucker 2013, p. 4). The space of a book page is not given but appears with the words spaced within it: “The first words placed define the space” (Drucker 2013, p. 3). The spatiality of a book is therefore relational, generative, complex and rhythmic, and we could add, quoting feminist political geographer Doreen Massey, “never finished; never closed” (Massey 2005, p. 9). It is an openness that “spaces itself out in the world” (Glissant 1997, p. 1).

Along our methodological meshwork, our interlaced practices produce – or rather invent – the spatiality which they inhabit and the text(ure) through which they are mapped: the practice of walking writes the text of the site it traverses; the text walks (and we walk along with it) across the book-page, the herbarium-sheet, the digital surface, the film-screen. The writing-site is, therefore, not a mere surface where the tracing of ideas takes place, but a “potential cartography” (Aït-Touati et al. 2019) within the concept of which territory and map co-generate each other. By collecting, “phytographing” (Vieira 2017), transposing and spacing our wordplants, we adopt a concept of authorship as a practice directed not from the point of view (point de vue) but from the point of life (point de vie) (Aït-Touati et al. 2019; Coccia 2018): not from outside the topic of our artistic practice but amidst it, opening possible futures for more-than-human artistic research collaborations.

What does it even mean: having made a beginning.

What does it even mean: setting a course.

To follow the five-pieced animal, another sign, bright and luminous:

Frédérique Aït-Touati et al., Terra Forma. Manuel de cartographies potentielles, Paris: Éditions B42 2019.

Thomas Ballhausen, “Die fortlaufende Erschreibung der Stadt. Ein Versuch über Psychogeographie und Literatur“, dérive. Zeitschrift für Stadtforschung 49/2012, pp. 45-50.

Thomas Ballhausen, Mutabor: Versuch über das Cahier, Dissertation, Institute of Language Arts/University of Applied Arts, Wien 2022.

URL: https://services.phaidra.bibliothek.uni-ak.ac.at/api/object/o:38936/diss/Content/get, accessed on April 30 2023.

Karen Barad, “Agential Realism. Feminist Interventions in Understanding Scientific Practices”, in: The Science Studies Reader, Mario Biagioli (ed.), New York; London: Routledge 1999, pp. 1-11.

Batsaki, Yota, “The Apocalyptic Herbarium: Mourning and Transformation in Anselm Kiefer’s Secret of the Ferns”, Environmental Humanities 13/2021, pp. 391-413.

Maurice Blanchot, The Book to Come, Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press 2003.

Robert Bringhurst, The Elements of Typographic Style, Seattle: Hartley & Marks 2013.

British Columbia Ministry of Forests, “Techniques and Procedures for Collecting, Preserving, Processing, and Storing Botanical Specimens” [1996], URL: https://www.for.gov.bc.ca/hfd/pubs/docs/wp/wp18.pdf, accessed on April 30 2023.

Emanuele Coccia, Die Wurzeln der Welt. Eine Philosophie der Pflanzen, München: Carl Hanser 2018.

Merlin Coverley, Psychogeography, London: Pocket Essentials 2010.

Riccardo de Lutio et. al, “The Herbarium 2021 Half-Earth Challenge Dataset and Machine Learning Competition”, Frontiers in Plant Science 12/2021, DOI: https://doi.org/10.3389/fpls.2021.787127

Johanna Drucker, Diagrammatic Writing, Eindhoven: Onomatopee 2013.

Stephen Farthing, Ed Webb-Ingall (eds.), Derek Jarman: Die Skizzenbücher, Berlin: Deutscher Kunstverlag 2013.

Laura L. Forrest et al., “The Limits of Hyb-Seq for Herbarium Specimens: Impact of Preservation Techniques”, Frontiers in Plant Science 7/2019, DOI: https://doi.org/10.3389/fevo.2019.00439

Michel Foucault, Die Heterotopien. Der utopische Körper. Zwei Radiovorträge, Frankfurt a.M.: Suhrkamp 2013.

Édouard Glissant, Poetics of Relation, Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press 1997.

Helen Humphreys, Field Study: Meditations on a Year at the Herbarium, Toronto: ECW 2021.

Ben Lerner, Leaving the Atocha Station, London: Granta 2011.

David Levin Becker, Many Subtle Channels: In Praise of Potential Literature, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press 2012.

Hanne Loreck et al. (eds.), (Mit) Pflanzen kartografieren – Mapping (with) Plants, Hamburg: Materialverlag der HFBK Hamburg 2017.

Stéphane Mallarmé, OEuvres complètes, Paris: Gallimard 1945.

Stéphane Mallarmé, Correspondance complète 1862-1871. Lettres sur la poésie, Paris: Gallimard 1995.

Doreen Massey, For Space, London: SAGE 2005.

Karen O’Rourke, Walking and Mapping: Artists as Cartographers, Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press 2013.

Georges Perec, Espèces d’espaces, Paris: Galilée 2000.

Elena Peytchinska, Theoretische Tiere: Textuelle Verfahren räumlicher Produktion, Dissertation, Institute of Language Arts/University of Applied Arts, Wien 2022. URL: https://services.phaidra.bibliothek.uni-ak.ac.at/api/object/o:70095/diss/Content/get, accessed on April 30 2023.

Queensland Herbarium, Collection and Preserving Plant Specimens, a Manual, Brisbane: Department of Science, Information, Technology and Innovation 2016. URL: https://www.qld.gov.au/__data/assets/pdf_file/0032/67469/collecting-manual-edition-2.pdf, accessed on April 30 2023.

Jane Rendell, Site-Writing. The Architecture of Art Criticism, London: I.B.Tauris 2010.

Jane Rendell, “When Site-Writing Becomes Site-Reading. Or How Space Matters Through Time”, in: Space Matters: Exploring Spatial Theory and Practice Today, Lukas Feireiss (ed.), Wien: Ambra Verlag 2013, pp. 48-59.

James D. Sidaway, “Psychogeography: Walking through strategy, nature and narrative”, Progress in Human Geography 46/2021, DOI:10.1177/03091325211017212

Anna Lowenhaupt Tsing, The Mushroom at the End of the World. On the Possibility of Life in Capitalist Ruins, Princeton NJ: Princeton University Press 2015.

Patricia Vieira, “Phytographia. Literature as Plant Writing”, in: The Language of Plants. Science, Philosophy, Literature, Monica Gagliano et al. (eds.), Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press 2017, pp. 215-233.

Richard Wettstein, Karl Schnarf, Leitfaden der Botanik, Wien: Hölder Pichler Tempsky 1924.

A different version of ”five” was published in: FAUNA. Language Arts and the New Order of Imaginary Animals, Elena Peytchinska, Thomas Ballhausen, Berlin: De Gruyter/Edition Angewandte 2018.

© 2024. This work by Thomas Ballhausen and Elena Peytchinska is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 4.0. 

reposition ISSN: 2960-4354 (Print) 2960-4362 (Online), ISBN: 978-3-9505090-8-3, doi.org/10.22501/repos