“Belonging” by Amanda Thomson.
I recently finished reading Belonging by Amanda Thomson, and although I initially planned to keep a "live" blog throughout my reading, life got in the way. Nonetheless, the themes within the text resonated deeply with me and continue to feel relevant to my art practice, especially as Thomson explores the concept of being stripped bare in extreme landscapes - places that feel disconnected from society’s labels and confines.
Thomson describes how, in these raw, unrefined landscapes, we are exposed, vulnerable, yet paradoxically free. In these spaces, the societal expectations that normally shape and constrain us fade into the background. We’re no longer defined by the labels we carry, the roles we’re expected to play, or the pressure of being perceived by others. It’s in these harsh landscapes - far from the noise of human existence - that we are forced to confront ourselves, not as the identities we’ve been given, but as something more elemental.
This idea struck a deep chord with me, especially in relation to my own experiences. I feel far more at peace in the far reaches of a forest or atop a mountain than I ever do in a city. In a city, I constantly feel the weight of being observed, needing to uphold a facade or live up to the expectations of others. Growing up, I was taught rules about who I should be, and if I didn’t fit the mold, I was made to feel inadequate or defective. Later, when I left the structured environment of school and the "system" I had been part of, I started learning about myself in ways I never had before. I began to understand what the label of dyslexia really meant for me, a label I had with me since I was 5, and how it had shaped my experiences. But over time, I also collected more labels, including autism, hypermobility, fibromyalgia, scoliosis, and of course, the familiar ones like sister, daughter, and partner. Each label feels like a facet of who I am, but I’ve come to realise that they don’t define me. At my core, I am more than those labels.
It is in these "harsh" landscapes, where I feel stripped of everything - the labels, the expectations, the societal norms - that I feel closest to my true essence. These landscapes have a way of laying us bare, removing the weight of external definitions and leaving us vulnerable but free, allowing us to explore what is truly ours beneath the layers. This feeling is something Thomson touches on in her book, where she refers to the sense of being "stripped bare" in places where the human touch is harder to find. The vulnerability that comes with this exposure is paradoxically freeing. It is a state of being where we are no longer defined by what the world says we are, but by what is at our core.
In the opening pages, Thomson includes definitions for understory and snag. The definition of understory immediately stood out to me, as I was in the middle of working on a piece when I read it. At that moment, I was painting the ground cover beneath the trees. Understory instantly felt like the perfect name for this piece.
understory the (layer of) vegetation growing beneath the level of the tallest trees in the forest
Thomson also writes about snags, standing dead trees that, despite their skeletal appearance, play a crucial role in sustaining the ecosystem around them. Although these trees stand in stark contrast to the vibrant life of the surrounding forest, their deadwood is vital, providing shelter and food for countless species. This concept of the snag felt deeply symbolic to me. The things that seem to be gone - the things that society might overlook as insignificant - actually continue to shape the present. Just as these snags contribute to the growth and sustainability of the forest, the stories of our families and ancestors continue to sustain us, even if society doesn’t always recognise their significance.
snag 1. a standing dead tree. Deadwood is vital for the sustained health of a forest
2. that which catches our attention, emotionally resonates; that which catches and holds us, often momentarily and sometimes surreptitiously
As Thomson points out, a family tree often only highlights the most significant members, yet the untold stories of those less acknowledged are equally important. It’s through these stories, passed down through generations, that we understand who we are and where we come from. In many cultures, there is a deep tradition of storytelling, and this resonates strongly with my own heritage. In Scottish and Gaelic tradition, storytelling is a way to pass down history, knowledge, and a sense of identity. These stories, much like the snags, might seem forgotten or neglected by the wider world, but they are fundamental in shaping the path that led us here. Our families’ stories, even though often overlooked, are what help us understand our place in the world.
This theme of resonance in the landscape also connects deeply with my interest in collective memory. Just as the deadwood in a forest sustains life in ways we don’t always see, the emotional resonance of places can carry echoes of personal and collective histories. Our memories and emotions ripple outward, starting at the core of who we are - our personal experiences and histories. From there, they expand outward: to our families, friends, and those closest to us, extending to our wider circle and beyond. Each of these layers, though different, shapes our sense of belonging to a larger whole.
Thomson’s reflections on the understory - the hidden layer beneath the trees - felt like a perfect metaphor for this process of discovery. It is here, away from the grandeur of the towering trees, that we can find our true story, our essence, unencumbered by the labels that society places upon us. And just as the harshness of a landscape can leave us vulnerable but more connected to our true selves, I seek to capture that raw emotional resonance in my work. Through my art, I aim to evoke the quiet power of landscapes, places that carry the weight of memory, emotion, and time. These environments offer a space where the layers of societal expectation fall away, leaving only the most essential truths.
As I continue to explore these themes in my art, I’m reminded that our sense of belonging is not something that is imposed on us from the outside. It’s something we discover for ourselves, often in the most unexpected places. And sometimes, it’s only when we’re stripped bare - free from the constraints of labels, from who society says we should be - that we can truly see who we are at our core. It’s in these "harsh" landscapes, these spaces of quiet resilience and hidden depth, that we can find our own story - our own belonging - away from the noise and expectations of the world.
