Beneath My Feet: The School as Fertile Ground

In the second phase of the workshop, we ventured out into the playground.

As previously noted, one of the primary motivations behind these workshops was the restoration of our connection with the surrounding environment. To embark upon a path of environmental regeneration, it is paramount, first and foremost, to regain the ability to see, know, and recognise the significance of the botanical beings that inhabit our planet. From an early age, children are taught to identify and name animals, yet plants remain neglected, eventually dissolving into an undifferentiated green blur.

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This phenomenon is known as plant blindness — a cognitive bias defined by J. H. Wandersee and E. E. Schussler (1999) describing the inability to notice vegetation in a given environment or to acknowledge its vital importance to the biosphere. According to biologist Stefano Mancuso, this difficulty is rooted in our neural architecture: we possess a natural tendency to better comprehend that which resembles ourselves.

This disconnect is exacerbated today by an increasing alienation from the animal and vegetable worlds. Indeed, I was struck by the discovery that even children in rural schools possess remarkably limited knowledge of flora and seldom engage in play involving the earth.

I am convinced of the importance of starting with our immediate surroundings—the places we inhabit daily—so that the wonder of nature’s beauty can manifest in the schoolyard, on the walk to school, or even in a flowerpot on a windowsill; after all, not every child has a forest nearby. Consequently, a core activity across all workshops was dedicated to observing the plants growing within the school playground.

Regrettably, the majority of school playgrounds are almost entirely paved. A few large trees may provide shade and oxygen, yet beyond them—often hemmed in by asphalt up to their trunks—there is scant space for other plants to thrive or soil to observe. Nevertheless, dozens of species find fissures in the concrete, in the walls, or upon the tree trunks themselves, where they manage to germinate and grow. Most of these belong to the vast family of ruderal plants.

Ruderal plants grow spontaneously in environments disturbed by human activity. Many are edible or play a fundamental role in soil regeneration; their roots aerate the ground, and upon decaying, they return precious nutrients to the earth. Despite the prevalence of cement, fences, and walls, an hour proved insufficient to fully observe, smell, touch, sketch, and discover the life burgeoning in these corners and cracks. Ruderal plants teach us about resilience and the significance of every element—no matter how small or seemingly inconsequential—within an ecosystem.

We observed the sheer force of nature insisting on growth in every nook, its wildness defying the attempts at control imposed by urban planning. We observed, we touched, and we smelled.

The children believed they knew their playground well, as they play there daily. However, even play is circumscribed by the architecture of the space and school management. The dominance of football pitches, the prohibition of "dirty" (soil-based) areas, and the fencing around trees contribute to a progressive estrangement from the earth. The reasons for this involve profound political and structural choices beyond the scope of this text.

What must be emphasised is that a group of children can remain enthralled and attentive for an entire hour within the small patch of earth surrounding a tree trunk. In that hour, they acquire knowledge that remains far more etched in their memory precisely because it was lived rather than taught. For the majority, this experience was an absolute novelty. It is therefore essential that such moments become a practice capable of permeating school habits. My hope is that these workshops impact not only the pupils but also the teachers, suggesting practices adaptable to other disciplines.

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How are these experiences inspired by artistic practices?

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My work is rooted in the performing arts—a practice requiring the activation of all senses and a synergy between body and mind. It is a discipline that constantly seeks to cross boundaries and forge connections. Listening to and observing the ‘Other’—be it a plant, a person, an animal, or a material—is integral to this practice.

The art I practice stimulates a sensory and physical relationship with our surroundings—a connection we are losing and must not forget. Establishing a living relationship with materials, as with bodies and space, constitutes—to paraphrase Anni Albers (Black Mountain College)—the starting point for performative action. It is this relationship I seek to share with children, employing exercises developed by artists to stimulate this sensitivity.

At the conclusion of this phase, we sat on the playground floor to share our findings. Sitting there, we felt the air, the cold, and the sun in our eyes. The activity is not confined to its initial objectives; it unfolds and generates new experiences at every stage. One must remain in a state of listening, following the possibilities generated in the moment by the environment or the children.

A workshop shares much with a theatrical performance. The Russian director Nikolai Karpov (2007), who taught a rigorous method influenced by Stanislavski and Meyerhold, maintained that one must always preserve a five per cent margin for improvisation. Improvisation is born from the encounter with the audience and the energy of the moment. I also recall the educator and artist Elliot Eisner, who stated:

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“In the arts, ends can follow means. One can act, and the act itself can suggest ends—ends that do not precede the act but follow it. In this process, the ends change; the work offers clues that one then pursues... This process of shifting goals while the work is being realised is what Dewey called ‘flexible purposing’.”

 

In a workshop with children, it is vital to allow the session to be transformed by the stimuli that arise. When I propose a workshop, the school accepts a disruption of the children's daily routine—and I have a responsibility to honour that openness. It makes little sense for a workshop to resemble a standard lesson.

Like a performance, the workshop does not exist to teach a subject, but to open windows and raise questions without offering closed answers, showing possible paths to children and, perhaps, to teachers as well. Only through attentive listening does the workshop become fertile ground, capable of growing alongside its participants.