A forest, and especially the Amazonian forest, is the quintessential form of inter-species coexistence. It is not simply an example of biodiversity, but the embodiment of an incalculable and unpredictable degree of richness and multiplicity of species belonging to the most disparate kingdoms. These forms do not simply coexist alongside each other, concentrated in a relatively small space: rather, they seem to live within each other, through each other, in a kind of mutual interpenetration that makes each body one of the infinite prostheses of another closely living being. In a forest, especially in the Amazonian rainforest, the inert matter of our planet is thus transformed into a psychedelic exercise of evoking forms, somewhere between dreaming and waking.²

The sense of ‘mutual interpenetration’ that Coccia discusses is at the heart of Dissonant Terrain, as Walton’s five works come together to create a digital forest ecosystem which is strange, otherworldly, and somehow at risk. Pulses of light within the videos and across the exhibition space are employed as a visual metaphor to signal and register alarm, just as different aspects of the technology used to drive and power the works (such as power cords) are lit by an eerie green light which calls attention to the ever-present and invasive role of technology and its often-unacknowledged environmental impact. Indeed, as one enters the exhibition space, the back of the video screen of Multi-species-convergence greets the viewer, its LED components blinking red and green in their own form of communication. On moving to the front of the work, the sense of interconnection is made complete as we witness a 3D-modeled plant (“built” by Walton through photogrammetry from hundreds of photographs of plants taken in the forest) come to life through the movement of a stylised “human” figure. Where one species starts and the other ends is no longer relevant—human, nature and technology have become one.

Walton’s intentions in Multi-species-convergence may initially seem unclear, but when viewed alongside the visuals of Flooded Forest—which responds to the devastating environmental impact of the creation of the Balbina Dam between 1985 and 1989 (which submerged nearly 3,000 square kilometres of the Amazon Forest, resulting in the displacement of the Waimiri-Atroari people and the emission of high levels of greenhouse gases)—perspectives crystallise. Walton visited the flooded forest during her LABVERDE residency, describing it as a ‘technological choice’ that left the landscape ‘like a graveyard of trees’.³

The artist’s CO2 Shower by contrast, is inspired by the ambition of a field experiment that she was introduced to at LABVERDE that is assessing the impact of high concentrations of carbon dioxide on the Amazonian rainforest in an attempt to better understand and future-proof its impact. In response to this speculative and hope-filled use of technology. CO2 Shower presents a digital forest that is evocatively and mysteriously filled with mist. The poetry of the work’s imagery, however, is undercut by the monumental presence of a large metal tower hovering within the tree canopy, and by the work’s unexpected and disturbing soundtrack—an alarm synchronised to sound in time with the flashing, coloured lights that appear intermittently within the landscape, before spilling into the gallery. Our ingrained physiological response to the alarm immediately heightens one’s senses as we brace ourselves for threats unseen and unknown.

Sound plays an important role in the darkened, atmospheric space of Dissonant Terrain. Walton engaged fellow LABVERDE artist Jana Irmert to compose the soundscape, which uses ‘radically slowed down’ field recordings of the night and daytime ambiences of the rainforest. As a result, our usual expectations of sound and its connection to various creatures is turned upon its head—high-pitched insect sounds for example, are transformed into low, ominous drones, and the ultrasonic vocalisation of bats, by being pitched down several octaves, can now be heard. While Irmert’s manipulations were in part a response to Walton’s visuals and their shared desire to create something ‘darker, not quite naturalistic’, they are equally a meditation on the possibilities of cross-species communication. As she explains,

… after experiencing the richness of the soundscape in the rainforest, I started wondering how other animals that communicate on a different frequency range, are perceiving that same soundscape. The forest must sound very different to bats or amphibians. So playing with the pitch and density of the soundscape became also a way to imagine that.⁴

In the end, Dissonant Terrain provides no answers, but that is also not its point. Its power is in the sense of immersion, and immediacy, that the installation creates, and in its ability to make environmental fragility and destruction feel palpable and urgent. As we stand before Being and see ourselves reflected back onto (and into) the work’s forest imagery, we realise that this is no longer something we simply read about or see on TV—we are in it and are part of it. Dissonant Terrain is a poignant call to action. We are all responsible for the future of this planet, and we need to act now.