Ilia: So, today we’re sitting here outside McHenry Library—it’s about 5 PM on July 20th, 2024, a Saturday—and we’ve gathered to talk about what we’re calling the Poison Oak Commune. Right now, I have to admit that even we don’t have a fully formed understanding of what this “Poison Oak Commune” might be. This is a conversation taking place precisely in that unsettled, in-between stage—when our initial fantasies about what this project or collective could be are already a bit shaken, yet we’re far from having a final product or a fixed identity. I think this could be a really interesting moment to talk, to articulate some of our concerns, our inspirations, and all the uncertainty that defines this “disturbed” stage of our process.
How are you all feeling about having this conversation at such an unsettled moment?
Jorge: I like the idea. We’re sitting here on a summer Saturday afternoon, feeling the breeze, seeing the campus around us. It’s a perfect metaphor for what you describe: a moment caught between a beginning and an undefined future. It’s not quite the start, not yet the conclusion—just this messy middle. I find it important and exciting to give voice to this discomfort and to share it openly, instead of waiting until everything has crystalized into a neat narrative.
Alberto: I really appreciate the way you acknowledged this in-between stage, Ilia. There’s something valuable about embracing the in-between: when the initial fantasy has rubbed up against reality, but no one has figured out what the final outcome will be. It’s an unsettling space, no doubt. But giving it room to be what it is, to exist without forcing it into a finished form, feels honest. It feels right. After all, when we propose projects, we often present them as if we know exactly what we’re doing. But in truth, the real work, the real thinking, happens in these disturbing liminal moments.
Dima: Yeah, absolutely. We often skip over this stage in discussions. We present projects once they’re neatly packaged or finished. But here we are, right in the thick of it. For me, this conversation is a chance to remember the questions and fantasies that started us off. Before we got here, we had some ideas, and now that we’re in it, they’re transformed. Everything—even getting here—is disorienting. There’s fog. There’s confusion. Just getting out to places like Big Creek or thinking about the land as we roam around UCSC’s campus brings these feelings up. I think acknowledging this is a way to re-center and find a starting point again. It’s good to speak openly, to be honest about the disorientation.
Ilia: Yes, that’s exactly the reason I suggested this talk. Instead of presenting a final, polished product or a tidy narrative, let’s wade through the uncertainties. I’d like to ground this conversation in something more tangible, though. I noticed, Dima and Alberto, that in your work and research, you talk a lot about “landscape,” cultural histories embedded in land, and how humans relate to it. I’m curious: as artists, how do you define “landscape”? It’s a slippery term, and I wonder what it means to each of you.
Alberto: Landscape, for me, is always more than just a scenic view. There’s this trifecta—social, political, environmental—that defines how I approach it. When I say “landscape,” I’m thinking about relationships between land use, policies, memory, and everyday life. For instance, if I think about a place like Fresno, where water access and heat define daily survival, the landscape isn’t just a pretty backdrop. It’s a lived reality that shapes how I, my family, my neighbors, and even the plants in my garden survive. It’s a network of provocations: who gets to drink clean water, who endures extreme heat, what the land can or can’t provide. So I guess landscape is the space where these struggles and stories unfold—where social, political, and environmental forces meet in the flesh.
Ilia: I love that you brought “provocations” into it. So the landscape is not just a static setting, it’s also about these challenges and triggers, right?
Alberto: Exactly. Think about it: if you’re unhoused, or poor, or displaced, the landscape is not just a neutral “environment.” It’s a site of survival. You feel the heat, you need water, you search for shade. There’s a constant negotiation of resources. Landscape, in that sense, doesn’t sit quietly in the background. It provokes responses—emotional, physical, political.
Dima: I share a similar perspective. I see “landscape” as a layered spatial realm, just like a soundscape is layered with different noises and silences. Landscape contains political histories, cultural practices, ecological dynamics—everything folded into one place. And it’s also always more than meets the eye. The reason I’m drawn to it is precisely because it’s composite. In Lebanon, where I come from, I never really thought about “landscape” as such. It was just my world, my environment. Only when I moved and looked back did I start to see it as something constructed, as something that could be named, studied, or portrayed. In leaving my home, I became aware that what I took for granted—my familiar environment—could be viewed as a landscape by someone else.
“Landscape” implies a certain observer and a certain distance. When you’re born into a place, you don’t necessarily call it a landscape. You call it home, you call it your world. But when you move away and return, either physically or imaginatively, you start to frame it as a landscape. You realize it’s bigger than what you can see at one time, it stretches into the past and the future, it’s layered with stories you know and stories you’ll never know.
Jorge: Right, that distance matters. It’s like once you step out of your original environment, you gain the conceptual distance to see it as a landscape. It also becomes something to communicate about—something you want to share with others. I’m also curious about how you, Dima, feel about this term “landscape” given your background and your current work here. There’s a tension: many cultures don’t have a direct word for “landscape.” It’s a Western concept often tied to painting and colonial views. How do you navigate that?
Dima: That’s a great point. The word “landscape” itself is loaded. Historically, it’s tied to Western traditions—Dutch landscape painting, English landscape architecture, and so forth. In Arabic, we often borrow words for concepts like this. Before I came here, I didn’t think of home as a “landscape.” Now, I have this Western lens that frames land as something one can depict or manage. I’m trying to unlearn and relearn what landscape means. Maybe I prefer to think of it as a land-space, an area with multiple layers of meaning. Landscape can imply a kind of neutral gaze, but I’m interested in a more relational perspective. I want to ask: who’s telling the story of this landscape? Who’s seeing it and who’s living it? Which stories remain untold?
Ilia: So “landscape” tends to come from a certain colonial and aesthetic tradition. It suggests a viewer and a scene. But we’re all trying to push beyond that. It’s about networks of relations, survival tactics, histories of displacement, and memory.
Alberto: Yes, and also about inserting our voices into it. Landscape can be a site of storytelling. In a world shaped by displacement, imperialism, and climate crisis, who gets to narrate the landscape’s story? If memory is lost, how do we restore it? If certain stories are erased, how do we bring them back through art, performance, or conversation? For me, this is crucial. Through performance, for example, we can re-inscribe memory onto the land. We can perform solidarity, find alignments, and create new forms of political and ecological understanding. This is landscape as a living, dynamic text we all write together.
Jorge: I like that—landscape as a kind of collaborative manuscript. Everyone adds their annotations. But of course, there are big forces shaping what can be said and what can be done. There are laws, borders, reserves, and restricted areas that determine who has access to which parts of the land. How do we deal with that?
Dima: Access is a huge part of this. Here in California, for instance, some lands are designated as reserves. This can protect them ecologically but also limit people’s engagement. There’s a contradiction: we set aside a place to preserve it, but then we isolate it from the communities that might have traditionally maintained a living relationship with it. Now we say, “Don’t forage, don’t touch,” because we must protect. But in doing that, we may forget how to be in a reciprocal relationship with land. Being here as a student, I have access to certain places that others don’t. The land becomes a privilege. Who am I to define its story? I try to avoid jumping straight into someone else’s written narrative. Instead, I go, experience, listen, and see what emerges before imposing a certain logic.
Alberto: The tension around land access and story is political. For example, in Big Sur, we encountered barriers—literal and metaphorical. There was a trail on the map, but someone crossed it out with a marker. Poof! The trail no longer exists. Or think of a landslide blocking a road—an environmental phenomenon telling us, “No, you’re not going this way.” It’s humbling. There’s a negotiation between what we want and what the land or authorities allow. This negotiation shapes our perception of landscape. Sometimes we get frustrated, or we adapt, or we find new ways to relate.
Ilia: I recall that at Big Sur, you were all interested in how signage, policies, and policing shape our experience. Would you say your artistic process involves pushing against these boundaries, or at least highlighting them?
Jorge: Absolutely. For me, noticing signs that say “Access Forbidden” or “No Entry” is as much part of the landscape as trees and rocks. These signs tell a story of ownership, regulation, and exclusion. By paying attention to them, we reveal how constructed these spaces are. Even so-called “natural” landscapes are politically produced. Our interventions—photographs, performances, or conversations—can lay bare those tensions and maybe open a new dialogue.
Dima: And it’s not only about human-made signs. A landslide itself can be seen as a kind of sign, a natural barricade. When we approached the landslide, from a distance it looked manageable. As we got closer, it kept receding, revealing its true scale. The rocks got bigger, and the distance felt greater. This was a lesson in perspective and humility. The landscape was not something static. It played with us, made us walk further than we thought we would, changed our perception of scale. It’s a reminder that even if we try to define the land in human terms, the land also defines and tests us.
Alberto: Yes, that day we climbed the landslide and observed each other from different vantage points. From above, I watched you all negotiating the unstable ground. You looked so small, and the landscape so grand. From your perspective, though, the closer you got, the more imposing it became. It’s like a dynamic interplay of scale and perception. And in that interplay, we find stories: personal narratives of exertion, fear, curiosity, along with geological narratives of erosion and movement. It becomes something we can tell, something we can remember and transmit.
Ilia: So memory and storytelling are key. Alberto, you mentioned earlier that memory is often lost, especially in conditions of imperialism, displacement, and environmental change. If landscape is also a container of memory, how do we restore or maintain that memory when it’s under threat?
Alberto: By performing it, telling it, and sharing it. When you’re displaced, or your family’s stories are at risk of being forgotten, art and conversation become forms of preserving and transmitting memory. Oral traditions, performance, ritual, photography—they re-inscribe narrative onto the land. It’s a kind of cultural re-territorialization, giving agency back to communities. Even just being aware that you stand on land with indigenous histories and ongoing indigenous presence changes your relation to it. It’s about making the invisible visible.
Dima: In Lebanon, the land has known endless layers of empire, trade, agriculture, colonization, and modernity. The stories stretch back thousands of years, predating writing itself. It can feel impossible to recover them all. But maybe we don’t need to. Maybe the goal is not to have a complete archive, but to keep the process of storytelling alive, to allow for new connections and meanings. Working here, I find remnants of a recent and painful colonial history that’s still unfolding. People are still here who remember different ways of relating to land. This proximity can feel more tangible. I try to engage with it, not to romanticize but to learn. The idea is to be open to what the land can tell me, what others can tell me, and what we can discover together, rather than imposing a single narrative.
Jorge: And this resonates with the idea that landscape is something we collectively construct and reconstruct through relational processes. We relate to each other and to the land, and in that relationality, we form communities—however temporary—and generate collective memory. This is what the Poison Oak Commune could be about: a space or concept that encourages us to see ourselves as part of a larger network of humans, nonhumans, histories, and futures.
Ilia: That’s beautiful. We started off uncertain and disturbed, and now we’re weaving something meaningful out of that disturbance. Let’s talk about that disturbance more. Why do we crave clarity in proposals, but when we do the actual work, we get stuck in this messy, unknown space?
Alberto: Because proposals are often written to get approved. They must sound confident and final, as if we know exactly what we’re doing. But that’s a genre of writing that’s quite different from the lived reality of creative processes. Once the proposal is accepted, we face the real complexity: unknown participants, unpredictable weather, unexpected encounters, and shifting ideas. The unknown is where true creativity lies, but it’s also unsettling. It demands flexibility and trust.
Dima: Yes, trust is crucial. If we trust each other, we can venture into unknown territory without panic. This is why working as a collective—or at least as a group in conversation—helps. We can support each other’s uncertainties, share fragments of meaning, and slowly form a path forward. Maybe this is how we “rematriate” the land, as some activists say, by acknowledging we don’t have all the answers, but we’re willing to listen, to learn, and to be changed by what we encounter.
Ilia: And how does this translate into your practice? For instance, we visited the UC reserves, we went to Big Sur, we had these embodied experiences. What surprised you there, and how did it feed into this idea of a shifting, relational landscape?
Dima: One surprise was how access and scale affected my perception. The reserves are protected areas, and I must grapple with the implications of that. On one hand, they preserve ecosystems. On the other, they restrict human engagement. It’s a product of modernity and a certain environmentalist logic that isolates nature to protect it. Experiencing that firsthand highlighted the complexity of environmental stewardship. Also, I saw scientists who approached the land with data collection: naming species, taking samples, making lists. They had a form of engagement that was concrete and confident. I felt envy because I’m floating in questions, yet I also realized their approach might miss the intangible, relational aspects we’ve been discussing.
Jorge: In Big Sur, that idea of infrastructure and human intervention was really evident. We saw a landslide blocking a highway—a human-built structure—and now humans had to manage the shifting earth. There were signs telling us where to go or not to go. Yet nature had its own signs that overruled human ones. The interplay of natural and cultural markers made me think about how we negotiate meaning in landscapes. That negotiation is a practice—it doesn’t yield a final answer. It’s ongoing.
Alberto: I was struck by the bodily sensations. The landslide day was a prime example. From afar, it looked stable and close. Up close, it was colossal and daunting. Rocks started to roll. The land was literally moving under our feet. This was not a painting or a photograph. It was a dynamic event, and our bodies were vulnerable, small, and temporary. This vulnerability brings humility and a sense of wonder, reminding me that landscapes are alive. They can resist us, hide trails, or reveal unexpected vistas. It’s not just a background; it’s an active participant in our experience.
Ilia: So landscape isn’t a static scene to observe; it’s something we struggle with, negotiate, and sometimes fail to overcome. It’s pushing back, setting conditions, and interacting with us as we try to make sense of it.
Dima: Exactly. By acknowledging that the land is an active partner in these interactions, we move away from the idea of environment as a mere backdrop. The environment is not passive. The land, the plants, the weather patterns—all have roles. They shape how we move, what we see, what we fear, what we desire. If we think of landscape as a verb rather than a noun, maybe we say we are “landscaping” all the time: entering relations, adjusting, being adjusted, creating meaning through engagement.
Jorge: That resonates with me. It’s like community organizing principles applied to place. In community organizing, you analyze your surroundings, talk to people, build trust, and come up with collective strategies. If we think of the land as part of that community—an actor with its own needs—we must learn to negotiate and find agreements. In a way, this conversation itself is a form of organizing around the concept of landscape. We’re sharing perspectives, hoping to grow understanding. Maybe by doing this verbally and creatively, we’re inching closer to a practice that respects the land as a co-participant.
Ilia: I want to circle back to something you said, Dima, about nostalgia and memory. You mentioned a nostalgia for relations with the land that perhaps never existed for you personally. Where does that come from?
Dima: I think it’s a longing for a kind of closeness and reciprocity I suspect once was possible. Modernity and urban life are very isolating. We’re packed into buildings, stacked like boxes, each isolated from each other. In older times, or in other cultural frameworks, people might have known their neighbors, shared resources, tended common lands. I’m aware that might be a romantic image. But it’s also a reaction to feeling rootless, not just physically, but emotionally. A place like Lebanon carries thousands of years of layered civilizations. Here, I see another history of colonization and genocide that’s still so recent. In both places, there’s a profound sense of rupture. I guess the nostalgia is for a way of being in the world that isn’t governed by abstraction, ownership, and distance. Maybe it’s not real, but it’s a useful horizon to work towards.
Ilia: So you’re acknowledging the complexity and not trying to idealize the past, but you still find that longing a motivational force?
Dima: Precisely. The longing might never be fully satisfied, but it guides the questions I ask. It helps me seek more meaningful connections in the present. Engaging with the land, with all its complexities, brings me closer to that sense of meaning. It’s a way out of feeling everything is ephemeral and disconnected. By rethinking how we relate to land, maybe we also reimagine how we relate to each other.
Alberto: And that’s why these projects that let us experiment in places like Big Sur or the UC reserves matter. They’re laboratories for new modes of relation. We’re not going to solve colonialism or climate change by one trip, but we can plant seeds of different thinking. Maybe we walk on a trail and we notice how “the environment” is made legible through signs, rules, and infrastructures. Maybe we talk about it afterward and realize that this way of shaping meaning doesn’t have to be final. We can propose another narrative, a counter-story, a different emphasis. Over time, these small efforts accumulate.
Jorge: That’s the hope, right? That these small efforts accumulate, forming a patchwork of stories and practices that shift our understanding. And it’s always relational, always partial. There’s a humility in admitting we’ll never fully grasp the landscape or account for every story. The bunny, the bugs, the trees—each has its own narrative that we cannot fully know. Yet, we can acknowledge that multiplicity and let it guide our respect.
Ilia: Right, there’s an infinite complexity. We’ll never gather all the stories, never finish the picture. Maybe that’s the beauty of it. The landscape is always open, always unfinished. This openness can be unsettling, but also liberating. Instead of finalizing a narrative, we remain curious, receptive.
Dima: Yes, and through that openness, we maintain the practice of telling, retelling, and listening. We keep memory fluid, we keep possibility alive. Rather than locking the land into one frame, we see it as a continuous scroll, always revealing more as we move along. This mirrors how we’re relating to each other now—tentatively, honestly, with the willingness to be surprised.
Alberto: This conversation itself feels like a performance of the very principles we’re trying to articulate. We didn’t come with a script. We’re improvising, responding, building on each other’s words. That’s another key point: to fully appreciate landscape, we might need to give up on rigid forms of knowledge and embrace more dialogic, improvisational methods.
Jorge: Exactly. It’s like jazz. We have a theme—the land, memory, politics—but we’re riffing, exploring variations, seeing where the conversation takes us. In doing so, we model a different way of engaging with complexity. Instead of fixating on “answers,” we welcome the process. That’s what the Poison Oak Commune could be: a practice of collective sense-making, always aware that the story isn’t finished.
Ilia: That’s a wonderful image. Before we wrap up, I want to touch on something Alberto said about the unknown. You talked about survival tactics, displacement, and climate crisis. How does the unknown factor into all this?
Alberto: The unknown is central. We face rising temperatures, shifting coastlines, and massive displacements. The world as we know it is changing. In this context, old certainties vanish. We can’t rely solely on established frameworks. We must improvise new relationships with the land, find new forms of solidarity. The unknown can be terrifying, but it also frees us from the illusion that we have all the answers. If we acknowledge the unknown as part of the landscape—just as real as rocks or rivers—we might approach it more humbly, more collaboratively.
Dima: Yes. The unknown invites collective experimentation. It reminds us that we’re never alone in not knowing. We can form communities precisely because we don’t have the final solution. Together, we can try, fail, learn, and try again. This iterative process parallels how landscapes evolve—eroding, growing, shifting over time.
Ilia: So, landscape as process, memory as fluid, and collaboration as a method of navigating the unknown. That ties everything together nicely. We started by talking about being in a disturbed stage of our project. Now, I see that disturbance as not just a hurdle, but as a fertile ground for creativity and relationship building.
Jorge: Disturbance breaks illusions of neatness. It’s a condition that forces us to think differently, to acknowledge complexity, and to respect the land and each other in more profound ways. Without disturbance, we might remain complacent.
Dima: Exactly. Disturbance can be the catalyst for new forms of understanding. It’s not comfortable, but comfort often leads to stagnation. We need that jolt to reconnect with what matters.
Alberto: And what matters is never just one thing. It’s the relations between us, the land, the histories we carry, and the futures we imagine. Disturbance reminds us that these relations need continuous care and attention.
Ilia: Thank you all. I think this conversation has brought us closer to a collective understanding that landscape is a vast network of stories, relations, and negotiations, always in flux. It’s political, personal, historical, and ecological. It’s a site of memory and a horizon of possibility. And talking about it at this unsettled stage allows for a deeper honesty than if we waited for a neat conclusion.
Jorge: I agree. I appreciate the opportunity to express these half-formed thoughts in the company of others who are also searching. It’s reassuring to know that the uncertainties we feel are shared and can be generative rather than paralyzing.
Dima: Yes, it’s a relief to acknowledge the disturbance. It means we’re alive to the complexity. I’m grateful for this space to articulate what usually remains implicit. Maybe now I can return to the land differently, open to its lessons, less fearful of not having a straightforward definition.
Alberto: And for me, this dialogue is part of my practice—turning confusion into a shared inquiry. Now, when I think of the Poison Oak Commune, I imagine it as a forum for exactly this kind of engagement. We might never finalize what it means, but that’s the point. It remains open, like the landscape itself.
Ilia: Let’s leave it at that, then. The mystery emerges, and we embrace it. The Poison Oak Commune can be this evolving conversation, this refusal to settle on easy answers, and this readiness to learn from land and each other. Thank you, everyone, for participating wholeheartedly in this messy, generative, and deeply human conversation.