Friday, 16 July 2010

(23) Glen Lyon

‘learn your language
no direction is home’

– Tom Raworth, ‘Drop in Existence’

Our Michinoku is Glen Lyon

Our ‘old places brought down to us through poetry’ is The Book of The Dean of Lismore (The Dean buried beside The Yew)

Our village of Ichikawa is Fortingall

Our Taga Castle is Carbane

Our Tsubo no Ishibumi, ‘all four cross-points marked’, is St Adamnan’s stone and compass cross

Our Yoritomo is Edwin Morgan (after John Cage)

Our ten-stitch sedge mats are the thatch on Allt na Calliche

-Oku; -Lionn

If the Shirakawa Barrier is gateway, transition from lowland–highland, then Glen Lyon is our lifeline, the longest glen for the longest day; a dead end run through by a river which carved out the ‘Heart’s Mountains’, the crescent of five peaks, the crown of Ben Lawers, and, back of it all, Schiehallion and the Black Wood. Here began the ancient wood of Caledon.

Glen Lyon: once Glen Fasach, ‘desert glen’; later Crom-ghleann nan Clach, ‘the crooked glen of the stones’; also the Glen of the castles: "Bha da chaisteal deug aig Fionn ann an Crom-ghleann nan Clach", ("Fionn had 12 castles in the crooked glen of the stones."); Gleann Duibhe, ‘glen of the black water’; thus finally Glenlionn, from ‘lithe’, a flood, for the spating current – like Lee, Leven, Lyons, lnnerleithen, and many other river places.

At its head the glen branches in 3, to the marvellously named Ashantian, Auchglen (Argyllshire), and Glen Mearan, flowing on to Gorton, Rannoch.

Basho’s ‘oku’ was named from the diminutive ending of the wild northern region of Michinoku, known for its glens and narrow roads. He called hokku the weeds along life’s oku.

Weem– Allt na Calliche

carry Adamnan’s corpse
on the woven withies

until they give way
at Weem

Our Lyon begins before the glen, by Adamnan’s mythical grave at Weem (Uaimh, ‘cave’) – though Gilbert Markus tells us that, given his stature, the Saint is almost certain to have been buried on Iona.

Weem is shared with St Cuthbert, who retired to the cave on the hill, built an oratory, and bathed all night in his stone bath. Later St David took this for his font.

23 wordrawing (St Cuthbert)
Alec Finlay, 2010

St Cuthbert’s Bath, St David’s Well (Weem Hill)

a bath
can be a scourge

or dip into
the well of dreams

Our glen ends at Allt na Calliche, which we never got to; where we would have found Cailleach, the hag–Goddess, Earth Mother – stone, shaped by the life-giving river resting summerlong in the doorway of her thatched croft. In Cailleach’s honour we took a dip in both waters: Tay, below the Hill of Weem, and gentle Lyon, by St Adamnan’s Cross.


The Glen Lyon station proper starts at Fortingall, our Ichikawa, psychogeographic terminus demarcated threefold: by 3 stone circles just beyond the village; the pre-Christian Yew, in the Kirkyaird; and the plague-stone.

23 Fortingall stone circle
Alec Finlay, 2010

circles of 3, 3 and 4
turn a reel
below Creag Cheal

Modern Antiquarian: '2,000 BC, circles of smooth rounded boulders: 4 stones (NE); 3 stones (SW); and 3 (S), by the river. Archaeologists from Leicester University established them as ‘four-poster variants’: 4 large stones at the corners of a rectangle; 4 smaller stones mid-way between the larger ones. The missing stones were buried in prepared pits in the 19th c. The SW circle originally had a floor of tiny pebbles within it. Quartz stones were found by the SSW stone At the centre of the NE circle, a burnt patch containing pieces of charcoal and cremated bone was found'.

St Cedd’s kirkton, Fortingall is home to the 3000-year-old Yew, survivor of souvenir hunters, Beltane fires lit in the cracks of the trunk, and its own weight – already ancient when Pontius Pilate was born here (says Holinshed); now the oldest living thing in Europa. The Yew’s caged; the old bell tower’s walled off from the Kirk.

23 hokku-label, Fortingall Yew
Ken Cockburn, 2010

A walk through the silage to the plague stone: the Black Death (14th c.) is said to have killed every villager, except an old woman who loaded the bodies onto a cart pulled by a white horse, burying them here in the field.

23 plague stone, Fortingall
Ken Cockburn, 2010

Sput Ban–An Stuc

The true-blue-oku began where the road narrowed at Sput Ban (‘White Cascade’), hemmed in by rocky Artrasgart. We pulled over below An Stuc, opposite Blackcroft’s arched Roman Bridge – hid in hazel, sycamore and alder – which everyone seems so sure isn’t Roman.

Now there need be no bridge, except that it perfectly frames the waterfall, Allt da Ghob, which falls 700 ft in spurts.

who ate
the salmon?

who ate the cream
in the 9 hazels?

(after Tess Darwin)

Paddling in the river I found a river oyster; pearlless pearl of memory – possibly prised open by the last tinkler-gypsies to fish the river.

Carbane: White Swan

23 Sora, Carbane Castle
Alec Finlay, 2010

Our first paired destination in the glen was one of the one of the castles of the Fhionn, Carbane, our Taga; which we found on a wee knoll at MacNab’s Hollow, by listening from the telephone exchange for the sound of the Carb Ban burn.

Bha da chaisteal deug aig Fionn,
Ann an Crom-ghleann dubh nan Clach.

(Twelve castles had Fionn
In the dark bent Glen of the Stones.)

We picnicked and drank Silver Tips (Meghai) from the thermos, among foxgloves, nettles, rowan, and the stump of a felled sycamore already sprouting again.

23 Carbane Castle (‘letterbox’)
Ken Cockburn, 2010

While I tied Carbane’s wish to a fallen oak, Ken found a letterbox slit among the gun loops.

23 wish (sycamore, Carbane Castle)
Alec Finlay, 2010

a rowan
at each

a rowan

of the

a rowan

This castle’s nadokoro is alms: Duncan Campbell 'the hospitable' gifted his clothes to a passing beggar – thus ‘white goose’ (‘Carn Ban’), and no doubt as daft, his wife calls after him. An older Laird was bewitched by the mothers of the girls he compelled to bring in the harvest naked. Pagan skin, worrisome.

McDonald’s collapsed the castle walls.

an arrow wisp
of burning tow
torched across the river

set the heather-
thatch roof alight

Then came Robert Campbell, who led the massacre of Glencoe. Old enmities handed down generation by generation, like knives to be sharpened – despite the ringing of Adomnan’s bell further down the glen.

Tramping the oku

That nameless passing beggar Campbell gave his breeks to, is a pair with Pete – who was Peter, was Hororobin, was Haining, now is alive again as ‘Administrator’ – different names stating different commitments of the self. Back in 2002 I published an essay – in Justified Sinners: an archaeology of Scottish Counter-Culture – in which one of his selves wrote a critical overview of another of his selves. St Avant-garde.

23 hokku-label (for Pete, for Peter, for Marshall)
(what are names / but worn stones)
Alec Finlay, 2010

Basho took a new name from the tree at the door of his old hut. That midsummer my old friend, now known as Adminstrator, devotee of the modus peregrini, was camped out in the Black Wood of Rannoch, a few wild miles over the hill. We hoped to coincide at Adamnan’s +, but I was a day early, or was he a day late?

DATA (Daily Action Time Archive) historifies his lives: 3 10-year projects each constructed by a different artist, as the Admin. explained: ‘Peter Haining the last in this triumvirate ceased to create – and indeed draw breath – on 31.12.2009. His presence in the archive was replaced by the administrator who prefers to be an anonymous creative force’. Haining made many artworks during many walks. He brought back the figure of the tramp for PRAM (Pedestrian Rambles Around Myland), walking across Scotland from Dysart, over Shirakawa, to Mallaig; pushing a golden pram that held all his personal and creative needs; a celebration of his Year of Freedom, 1984, contra Orwell’s bleak vision. I think on the courage it will have taken, to hold that identification for days and miles. Saintly in its stern and joyous way.

23 postcard, Meall na Aighean

After taking down our notes on Carbane, we sat a while on the serpentine mound behind the castle, watching fluttering black moths, hearing occasional gunshots ricochet down from the stalking on Meall Aighean (‘Hill of the Young Heifer’), wondering, was this stoneless mound a more ancient castle?

Further down the glen were the ruins or memories of other Fingalian towers: Craig Dianaidh, ‘the rock of defence’; Kerruclach, at Kerremore; and, above Milton Eonan, An Castul, ‘the castle, holding the glen between Glenlyon and Loch Tay.

Back on the road we passed Suidhe Inian (‘the seat of St. Ninian’). On by Inverar and the carse of Lagganacha, to Roroyeyre, where the old lands of the MacGregors of Roro begin. All those -o endings; Creag Roro, Roromore, Clach Bhranno; what folk were they? The Norse of Innerwick; The Irish of Athol?

23 wordrawing (St Adamnan)
Alec Finlay, 2010

Compassing the Stone

‘Our landslides and floods have altered paths and covered markers with earth, and trees arisen generations gone, and hard to locate anything now, but that moment seeing the thousand-year-old monument brought back sense of time past’.

– Basho, station 23

St Adamnan’s, or Eonan’s, stone, is marked on the OS at Craigianie, the fortified slopes of Craig Fhianaidh, ‘the rock of the Feinne’. It isn’t. After we each flighted a mountain hare, we saw the way back through the trees to the stone; it's on the southside, near Cambusvrachain burn. Smaller than on flickr, our pair with the ‘Tsubo no Ishibumi’, sits at an angle, on a bend in the oku, over the wire fence.

Maybe the map’s error’s a memory of the nearby rock that bears St. Palladius footmark. But is it the Saint’s foot, or that of the shaggy one, Pheallaidh, King of the Uruisks – who gave his name to Aberfeldy and had a second home up by the Birks; who loved the swift running Lyon and could swim faster than salmon or otter. Who named the crag on steep Meall Garbh: Ruigh Pheallaidh? Wild or Holy Man, or are they one and the same?

23 Compassing the stone
Alec Finlay, 2010

We spent the best part of the sunny afternoon compassing the Cross, offering each peak its name.


over the steading at Roromore
to Creag Dubh

past the river
and Balnahanaird
up Allt a Chobhair burn
to the peaks of An Stuc
and Ben Lawers

sweeping over Coire Ban
and Meall a Choire Leith

beyond the wood
to Creag nan Eildeag

up the glen
by the meadow of old Ballinloan
beyond the pines
on Meggermie ridge
to the slope of
Stochd an Lochan
and distant Beinn Dorain

crane to the cairn
on Dubh Choirein
follow the line of
Alt bhrraehain burn
to the summit of Beinn Dearg

up Ruighe Pheallaidh
and the steeps of Carn Gorm

23 hokku-label, Adamnan's Stone
(wind’s picked up / the map begins / its own journey)
Ken Cockburn, 2010

The Cross is set off-kilter: following the grain of the stone? Or is it a compass, true, as I felt it to be, to the glen itself – unconcerned with lattitude and longitude – marking the gentle declivity of the ancient skyline, where Meall Garbh flows into Meall a’ Choire Leith.

My speculations wove themselves tightly around our stone’s twin; Basho’s mossy Tsubo no Ishibumi incised with 4 ‘cross-points’, NE, SE, SW, NW, giving direction and measure to the distant frontier.

23 St Adamnan’s Cross
Alec Finlay, 2010

Adamnan’s Law

Gilbert Markus, our placename guide, explicator of Adamnan’s Law, says: ‘just as Basho's waymarker marked NE, SW, a’ the airts, so the cross, with its 4 arms does the same. Early Christian writers, wondering what the shape of the cross 'meant’ … imagined it as pointing in all directions to signify the universal scope of mercy. The little hillock on which Adomnán's cross sits is Tom a'Mhoid, 'hill of the court, of the assembly or meeting-place'. The cross is associated with people being called together, on a slight eminence, visible to all, to settle their differences – preferably peacefully. Calling a blessing on a group called together in the pursuit of justice and consensus.’

An extract from Gilbert’s translation of the ‘Law of the Innocents’ is included at the end of this station – code of conduct, composed at the behest of a mother. A Law we would think of again at bloody Dunsinane.

Deoradh: No direction is home

you have taken the E from me
you have taken the W from me
you have taken my S and taken my N
you have taken my God from me

deoradh: stranger or exile; a helpless forlorn being; fugitive, outlaw

Bearing in mind Sogi’s dictum:

gie thocht to whit cannae think
gie speakin to whit cannae speak

I give speech to what I can. The richness of the Glen that afternoon is too much for me to formulate into a straight argument. Ancient landscape, the Gaelic names are incomers, and young; waymarkers of the New Irish, emigrants who overwrote the names of the Picts; the names called out by kids playing around The Yew when it was still growing.

We peered at the crown of Ben Lawers through the fetch of the skyline, listening for the silence the poet Yoritomo spoke of, in this poem with it’s embedded names.

Michinoku no
iwade shinobu wa
ezo shiranu
kaki tsukushite yo
tsubo no ishibumi

I say nothing
and remain silent.

No-one knows
my feelings.

They are spelt out
in writing.

Yoritomo’s silence is Edwin Morgan, saying John Cage over again, saying:

‘I am nothing and I have poetry to say and that is saying it’.

Yoritomo’s silence is the silence of Tom a’ Mhoid, the Parley Mound, where Adamnan spoke the Law of The Innocents.

Yoritomo’s silence is Adamnan’s bell, that would ring for those who have nothing.

Yoritomo’s silence is the silence of the languages of the glen.

Yoritomo’s silence is the silence of a broken fiddle.

Griogal Cridhe

‘While the young wives of the town
Serenely sleep tonight
I will be at the edge of your gravestone
Beating my two hands’

I played Ken a recording of ‘Griogal Cridhe’ – the ancient lament for Beloved Gregor of Stronmelochan – sung by Margaret Bennett. ‘Griogal’ was the song Hamish would always call on Margaret to sing in the lull of an evening ceilidh; following the gesture of her outstretched hands we would all join in with the swelling chorus.

"This powerful, passionate lament was composed by the sorrowing wife of Gregor MacGregor (a relative of Rob Roy) who was beheaded in 1757. 'Dearest beloved one, they spilled your blood yesterday. They put your head on an oak stob and left your body lying...' The violin weeps with the voice as she pours out her heart, beating her fists on his grave."

– Martyn Bennett, notes to Glen Lyon: a Song Cycle

It was her son Martyn’s setting that we listened to. Hearing the song in Glen Lyon, it seemed translated into a caoeine of premonition: lamenting the loss of Martyn himself, the son who died so young – the silence that of his smashed instruments, broken in a torrent of rage at the waste of his illness.

for martyn

tho the instrument
lies broken

your playing still fills
the silence of the glen

23 Martyn
Alec Finlay, 2010

Adamnan’s bell rings for Martyn. His gifts and beauty were appreciated by many. GRIT, his last recording, summons the spirits of the deoradh, the outcast tinker-gypsies, the old Gaelic singers, calling out with-and-against his body’s struggle. In his words:

‘The title means many things to me personally. However, it is tied up in my ideas of where my culture lies – a word seen by the roadside, it travels like an expression of determination; onomatopoeic, it reflects the contrasts of this music and topography and has an old intonation which, far from being ‘out-of-tune’, is the real flavour of these traditions.’

Such translations – through time and space – succeed through feeling, through the wound being spoken.

Allt na Calliche

‘for a window to survive
the wall must stand’

– Susan Tichy

A few days on we sat with Margaret and asked about the Glen Lyon project. It was an episode in Angus Farquhar’s, ‘The Path’, a spiritual journey through mountain cultures.

Ken and I will follow Angus steps through other psychogeographies – Kilmartin, The Quiraing, Calton Hill – places he translated, casting land under darkness, shining in light, dance and song. On this journey I’ve already gained a better sense of how Angus allowed himself to be guided – by Margaret, Hamish, by the old waymarkers that are scattered through the glens – and how his journeys are, like Basho’s, or Pete Haining’s, the heart of the work.

Margaret recalled how she and Martyn walked up to an old ruin that Angus had rethatched, hiding her songs in speakers concealed in the straw and, as she approached, tho’ she knew it was her own voice she heard, still she had the eerie sense to wonder who it could be who was singing.

Was the thatch a ghostly memory of the Cailleach, Carlin, Creatrix, the hag-goddess, kin to MacBeth’s ‘sichtless cailleachs’ (Edwin Morgan)? Her hillside home is further down the glen. She washes her plaid in the whirlpool of Coire Bhreacain; she herds the deer on Ben Cruachan. More than anywhere though, she is associated with Glen Cailleach of Glen Lyon.

In an ancient ritual, the shepherd at Allt na Calliche takes out the Cailleach and her family: her husband, Bodach, and their daughter, Nighean. Each May the stones are washed and set before the doorway of a hut that's been newly thatched with turf, blessing the summer. The thatch on Allt na Calliche is our pair for Basho’s ‘ten-stitch sedge mats’. Each November the Cailleach and her family are taken away again; the thatch taken down, replaced with mud and rocks. As long as they are cared for the glen will prosper. Recently a Professor took the stones away for study.

We sat so long in the sun watching the river which had shaped those stones into deities, that there was need of a swim; a dip and then a sip of Deanston (12yr) to warm us.

the current’s

until you turn

23 Basho’s dip
Alec Finlay, 2010

23 Sora’s dip
Ken Cockburn, 2010

23 postcard: River Lyon, Glenyon

South by Bridge of Balgie

23 postcard: Bridge of Balgie (A Natural Colour Photograph)
J. Arthur Dixon

We decided on the back oku home, south along the flank of Ben Lawers. First to the bridge at Balgie, as Ken wanted to look for the clachan of Milton Eonan where the Saint, ever practical, erected the first meal mill in the glen.

a cone

the pine

AF, after Shiki

Around Meggernie there are remnants of Caledonian Forest. Here, on Oakbank, grow the first European larch in Scotland, introduced, by Jacobite John Menzies, who brought the cones back from Tyrol.

a translation of exile
larix, lärche, auf Tyrol

Below the ridge of Meall nan Tarmachan (‘Ptarmigan’), through the twin towers of Lochan na Lairige dam, we saw Ben Vorlich.

Ben Lawers is one of the richest alpine habitats in Scotland: Cyphel, Mountain Avens, Rose-root, Dwarf Cornel, Eyebright, Fleabane. We have included Colin Will’s poem, first published in his descriptive essay, ‘The Flowers of Ben lawers’ (in the pocketbook, The Way to Cold Mountain) as a coda to this station. His walk up Ben Dorain, (station 31) botanizes another mountain.


Varieties of blue

Sky is one, sure;
an infinite kind,
deeper overhead
and paler at the edges -
or hadn’t you noticed?
Look up, it’s true.

Some bulbs flower in the year’s opening -
Scilla, Iris, Glory-of-the-Snows.
Each one’s a single blue word
on winter’s blank sheet.

As the sun moves up
a new crop of hues
tries to catch our summer hopes.
Lithodora – ‘Heavenly Blue’;
Forget-me-not, a blended blue –
sky with some cloud stirred in.
Delphiniums stand up to be counted –
“I’m here”, “And Me”, “Me Too”, “We’re blue”.

The blue beyond blue,
the truest, overwhelming Ace of Blue,
is Mountain Gentian.
Shyly, on mountain meadows,
it opens when the spring sun tells it,
ere evening azures into indigo.

Colin Will


The guide to station 23, Glen Lyon, is understandably open. We suggest traveling E-W along the glen, starting at Fortingall (56°35'52.89"N) (4° 3'8.00"W) and going as far along as you wish.

the completed journey will be realised as an audio-visual word-map, published online and in print, May 16, 2011. If you would like more information about the project email


Justified Sinners and The Way to Cold Mountain are both available from Alec Finlay's bookshop.

Glen Lyon Photography showcases photographs of the dramatic beauty of Glenlyon and surrounding areas of Highland Perthshire.

* * *

from ‘Law of the Innocents’

6) This was the beginning of the tale: once Adomnán and his mother were travelling on the road by the Áth Drochait [Drogheda] in Uaithne in Uí Aedo Odba in the south of Brega. ‘Come up on my back, mother dear,’ he said.
‘I will not go,’ said she.
‘What’s this? What is the matter with you?’ he said.
‘It is because you are not a dutiful son,’ she said.
‘Who is more dutiful than I? I put a strap across my breast to carry you from one place to another, and to keep you out of all the piss and shit. I don’t know of any duty a man’s son could do for his mother that I don’t do for you, except making that humming tune that women make … Since I can’t do that humming tune, I will have a harp made for you to delight you, with a strap of white bronze.’
‘If that were so,’ she said, ‘your dutifulness would be good. But that is not the duty I mean, but rather the freeing of women from encounter and encampment, from expedition and hosting, from wounding, from slaughter, and from the slavery of the cauldron.’

7) Then she went upon her son’s back, till they came upon a field of slaughter. This was how thick the carnage was on which they came: the two feet of one woman reached to the headless neck of the next one. Of all they saw on the battlefield, they saw nothing which they found more touching or more wretched than the head of a woman lying in one place and her body in another, and her infant on the breast of her corpse. There was a stream of milk on one of its cheeks and a stream of blood on the other cheek.

8) That is touching and pitiful to me,’ said Ronnat, Adomnán’s mother, ‘what I see at your feet, O dear cleric. Why do you not let me down to the ground, so that I may give my breast to the child? But it’s a long time since my breasts ran dry. Nothing would be found in them. Why do you not prove your clerical skill for us on that pitiful body to see if the lord will revive it for you?’ This is where the old saying comes from: ‘ Every pup is lovely under its mother.’
At the word of his mother, Adomnán turned and set the head on the neck, and he made a sign of the cross with his staff over the woman’s breast, and she rose up.

9) ‘Alas, O my great Lord of Elements,’ she said.
‘What makes you say alas?’ said Adomnán.
‘My having been put to the sword on the battlefield, and then my having been put in the pains of hell. I do not know anyone, either here or there, who would do a kindness or a mercy for me except for Adomnán, with the Virgin Mary urging him on to it on behalf of the community of heaven.’

10) And the woman who was brought back to life there at the word of Adomnán was Smirgat daughter of Áed Find, king of the Bréifne of Connaught, the wife of the king of the Luigni of Tara; for the women of the Uí Aedo Odba and of southern Brega and of the Luigni of Tara had come together in battle around the ford, so that of all of them not a soul had remained in its body, but they had fallen sole to sole.

11) ‘Well then, Adomnán,’ said Ronnat, ‘it has been granted to you now to free the women of the western world. Neither food nor drink will go into you mouth until women have been set free by you.’
‘No living creature can be without food,’ said Adomnán. ‘If my eyes see it, my hands will reach out for it.’
‘But your eyes shall not see, nor will your hands reach it.’

12) Then Ronnat went to Brugach son of Deda and got a chain from him. She put it around her son’s breast under the bridge of Loch Swilly in Cenél Conaill, the place where the covenant had been made between his mother’s kindred and his father’s kindred, i.e. between Cenél nEndai and [Cenél] Lugdach, so that whoever of them should break the covenant would be buried alive in the earth, but whoever should fulfill it would dwell with Adomnán in heaven. And she takes a stone which is used for striking fire – it filled her hand. She puts it into one of her son’s cheeks, so it was on that he had his satisfaction in food and drink.

13) After that, at the end of eight months, his mother came to see him, and she saw the top of his head. ‘My little son there,’ she said, ‘is like an apple on the wave. Little is his grasp on earth, and he has not a prayer in heaven, but salt has burned him and sea-gulls have shat on his head. And I see that women have still not been freed by him.’
‘It’s my Lord who ought to carry the blame, dear mother,’ he said. ‘For Christ’s sake, change my suffering!’

14) This is the change of suffering she made for him, and not many women would do this to their son: she buried him in a stone chest in Raphoe of Tír Chonaill, so that maggots ate the roof of his tongue, and the slime of his head burst out through his ears. After that she took him to Carraic in Chulinn, and he stayed there another eight months.

15) At the end of four years, angels of God came from heaven to talk with him. They lifted Adomnán out of the stone chest and took him to the Plain of Birr, to the provincial boundary between the Uí Néill and the Men of Munster. ‘Rise up now out of your hiding-place,’ said the angel to Adomnán.
‘I will not rise,’ said Adomnán, ‘until women have been freed for me.’
Then the angel said, ‘Everything which you ask of the Lord you shall have, for the sake of your labour.’

from Adomnan’s ‘Law of the Innocents’, Gilbert Markus (Kilmartin House Trust, 2008)

coda: Glen Lyon in Winter, Allan Pollok-Morris

Our thanks to Allan Pollok-Morris for this album of photographs, revisiting Glen Lyon, taking the road further on, geographically and seasonally.


Allan Pollok-Morris was recently interviewed by Sandy Felton. You can read this interview here. From 22nd January - 5th of June 2011, 'Close: A journey in Scotland' will feature an exhibition of 40 of Allan's large format prints and film. (United States Botanic Garden Exhibition, Washington, DC.)

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