Q: What originally pulled you toward image-making—and at what point did photography stop being about capturing moments and start becoming a tool for inquiry, research, or meaning?
I was born in rural Yorkshire at the foot of the North York Moors, a vast and barren upland landscape. For most of my life I worked with dogs, so would spend all hours of daylight out in the forests and valleys of this habitat. It was here that I began to take pictures, as a way to try and communicate my relationship to this ecosystem that had moulded both me and my family for generations. Initially I was doing traditional landscape photography - sunsets, snow-laden trees, and so on, but after a couple of years I found myself frustrated by the limits of digital photography. So often, I was focused on the digital rendition on the small LCD of the camera, as opposed to the living and breathing landscape that I was materially connected to and living within.
That's when I abandoned my digital camera for analogue processes, as a way of getting my hands dirty and engaging directly with materials, to feel engaged within a living network of beings, and not merely creating digital reproductions. I think that transition is when photography became more about inquiry, as I started to consider my relationship to the wider world not as purely a subject through the lens, but as an active collaborator in the creative process.
Q: Outside of art and photography, what consistently inspires you?
There are two consistent motifs in my work: the nonhuman world, and myth-making. Having grown up in a rural environment, I was always close to nature as a child. I was raised by my grandparents when I was young; my grandfather was a biology teacher and my grandma had a degree in Entomology (the study of Insects). So I spent a lot of time watching butterflies up close, or watching different birds in the garden. This led to a passion for the natural world, which features heavily in almost all the works I do, commercial or non-commercial.
Similarly, rural Britain has a lot of remnants of paganism, where belief was more tied to the land and to nature. In my area exist ancient sites that were once considered sacred, rock carvings, and a history of folk ritual and witchcraft. Not identifying with the current rural culture, which often sees nonhuman nature as a resource for human benefit, I became drawn to these alternative understandings, and interested in how mythology helps construct the world around us. In my work, I then like to explore how we can create new myths that transform our relationship to nature into one that is based on mutual respect and care.
Q: You work across analogue, digital, and moving image. When you’re starting a new piece, how do you decide what it needs to be made with, and have there been moments when the material itself changed the outcome entirely?
I always try to link the material with the subject where possible. As most of my works deal with ecological subjects, I try to involve the landscape as much as possible. For example, my film YORKSHIRE DIRT is a critique of common rural practices such as fox hunting and monocultures, and the film is printed on soil that I dug up with my own hands in the hills behind my home. This approach began with my film A Guide to British Trees, a neo-creation myth where the central character dies and is reborn as a tree. During the film, we see the protagonist travel through the elements - which I wanted to involve materially in the creation of the film. This meant burying film stock in soil and letting the microbes eat it, submerging footage in the sea to let the saltwater degrade it, and even shocking film to record the patterns of electricity. The outcome of these processes is unpredictable - so often the outcome is altered in unexpected but exciting ways.
Q: Kinn is built on the belief that meaning lives in the details, objects that take time, care, and intention to create and to keep. Where do you see a shared ethos between your practice and brands that value longevity, restraint, and physical craft over immediacy?
Material, physical processes are integral to my way of working. I find the time spent with physical craft, engaging my five senses, and taking a break from the digital world that envelops all aspects of life, allows me to remain grounded and connected to the meaning behind my work. Spending time with each work creates a connection that is irreplaceable with fleeting digital works. Furthermore, with physical craft, there is an element of surrender - in that each work ends up with slight imperfections. However, I feel these imperfections are what makes my work unique, and are a closer representation of our fragile existence, the fingerprints and dust and scratches a part of us all.
Q: If someone encountered your work slowly—offline, without context, without a screen—what do you hope they feel first before they think? And what would you want them to notice if they stayed with it just a little longer?
Whilst I often deal with ecological issues, I still want my works to be an emotional experience at their core. Fundamentally, humans are emotional beings, and I think this is what motivates us to action, more so than information or statistics. I would hope that my works, if encountered, evoke a response of empathy with the natural world, and a closer connection to it, and ultimately a desire for change if they stayed with them a little longer.
We are honored to have been apart of this creative process with Edd. You can see more of Edd's work here. Check out our latest collection—Love, in the Details.