In a forest in the Hague there are two dead trees. Side by side their torn stumps stand, with their remains on the ground, felled by the rot of an invading fungi. The stumps and the roots have been completely hollowed out by the rot. In contrast to their vivid surroundings, the dead trees stand out clearly. The nearby graveyard lends them the image of tombstones, like ancient vessels filled with earth and rainwater. It was late in the evening when I first came across them. I was walking with a friend, talking about something far away, when my attention was caught by a pale spot in the darkness. I stammered a bit and gestured towards the spot. We approached it through the bushes and were met with those dead trees standing silently in the moonlight.
The tree stumps were about as tall as a human, giving them a distinct character. They seemed patient and wistful. We climbed around on them, touched the bark, smelled the sap and stuck our heads into the holes of the stumps. She knocked on one of the fallen trunks and exclaimed at the hollow sound it made. The sound betrayed the empty chambers hidden inside. When we left them, I was certain I would return.
This document was to be a report on the interventions the trees inspired. I had aimed to learn about them by drawing, recording, singing into and interracting with the them. Instead it became a story about forests, expectations and rot.