Bárbara Rodríguez Muñoz: We are in a moment of vegetal synchronicity. While your film reads like a love letter to your Mano de Tigre plant, I am mourning my own Monstera deliciosa, which did not pass the new brexit border from London to mainland Europe. How does the exportation of tropical plants relate to your own migration from Costa Rica to Europe? Does she (the Mano de Tigre) create a space to feel rooted?

Sergio Rojas Chaves: Now that you mention it, my experience of migration has been a constant catalyst in my work. It has always been surrounded by feelings of nostalgia and alienation. The first time I lived outside of Costa Rica, I found myself mostly missing my natural surroundings. I was used to living amongst a wide range of flora and fauna that I recognized and enjoyed observing. Coming from the tropics to more temperate areas, I could sense the shift in biodiversity, there was less variety of species. Once, while walking in a forest, I remember being shocked when I realized that it was only populated by two species of trees and one fern species. I was used to dense environments where its almost impossible to count all the species contained in one-square meter of forest.

In addition to feeling nostalgic about the natural landscape, I lived in an area with almost no Latin American migrants so the pressure of cultural assimilation was very strong. While trying to blend in, I started noticing that houseplant keeping was a common practice; growing up I don’t recall having any houseplants. We lived surrounded by the tropical forest so I imagine we felt no need to have any species inside the house. Don’t get me wrong, we did keep some plants in large pots in our garden but a back then it was uncommon to see them indoors.

Perhaps it was homesickness, but seeing these manicured versions of plants I realized how the forest made me develop strong feelings of empathy towards them. I felt as if these plants came from the same place I came from, and they looked as isolated as I was feeling. I knew that the relationship we formed would be a way of connecting to my home. During that time, I had no visitors from Costa Rica, I never got a chance to welcome someone into my new surroundings so I started treating the plants as my guests. I think that despite their commodification, tropical houseplants, like the Mano de Tigre I live with, can open a space for us to feel rooted, valued and at ease. It all depends on the kind of relation we foster with them.

BRM: Tell me more about your interest on the role of houseplants today, the tension between being commodities and being companions?

SRC: As I keep trying to understand my relation to houseplants, I have become intrigued about the perspective of other plant keepers. Trying to understand and document the multiplicity of roles a houseplant can have in someone’s life is important to see how houseplant keeping practices have evolved.

I am particularly interested in the inherited colonialism of decorating with tropical plants. The houseplant keeping practice that we know today originates during the Victorian Era when, thanks to the invention of the Wardian case, plants could be collected and sent from colonial territories to Britain. Owning tropical plants quenched a thirst for “the exotic”; they were commodities reminiscent of the vast control of the Empire. Today, the idea of a “jungle-at-home” still bears the traces of this desire to posses or control the wild and exotic appeal of these plant species; to be king or queen of one’s own jungle. Unlike other domestic species, groups of plants are referred to as “collections”, so it is hard not to draw the parallel to other types of collectible ornaments. The interest in collecting rare plant species is also reminiscent of hunters looking for animals they could turn in to trophies; rare plants become coveted status symbols that can boost one’s reputation as an “invested” plant keeper.

However, I am aware that not all relationships that people develop with their plants are based on aesthetic ideals. Many people develop strong bonds with their plant companions, sometimes even naming them. Although these bonds are strong and the feelings are genuine, I can’t help but think about the tension between care and control that happens in these scenarios. Are these plants fulfilling our need to feel responsible for another living being? It appears as if sometimes we put ourselves in the position of caregivers yet not all gestures in plant keeping are considerate of the plant’s needs. Is restraining root systems an act of care? How about trimming stems and leaves in favor of a specific aesthetic? Are we fostering perpetual ornaments or silent companions that rely on our care to survive? I believe it’s important to reassess our approach to this practice and ask ourselves what our intentions and motivations are in order for us to have a respectful relation with the plants we live with.

BRM: I undertand that a strong influence in your work is Canadian ethnobotanist Nancy Turner and her approach to ethnobiology.

SCR: Yes, I am immensely grateful of having had the chance of discussing many of the question driving my research with Nancy Turner. When I arrived in Canada, I had just finished working on a series of environmental conservation projects in Costa Rica. I felt very close to that environment and I struggled to find that same attachment to the West-coast Canadian landscape. Nancy’s perspective, which is strongly informed by that of the Coast Salish peoples, helped me have a greater appreciation of the areas I was inhabiting. In our conversations, I understood the importance of honoring and acknowledging the presence of all those around you (human and non-human). I also learnt the importance of contextualizing practices and ideas; she insists on the value of sharing stories as a way to understand our relation to the natural world. Her approach makes you feel that every detail of a story is important, every perspective counts. I admire her conviction of including non-academic writing into ethnobotanical practices, as a way of acknowledging that most of the knowledge we have about certain plants has not been recorded in the same way as data collection has.

At that time, I was struggling to find some references for my research, all studies on houseplants were about air quality but none about their history, uses and relation to humans. Houseplants tend to be a footnote in books about agriculture and colonialism. I had to start piecing those things together myself and Nancy was there to point me in the right direction, providing references, insight and encouragement.

BRM: We share an interest in Robin Wall Kimmerer’s writings. In the Learning the Grammar of Animacy, she talks about the limitations of English language to acknowledge plants (and other non-human species) agency—we reserve the pronouns of personhood for humans. She explains how Potawatomi and other indigenous language dissolve the boundaries between animals, plants and landscapes. You chose not to use “it” to describe your plant and in this way you honour her liveliness and sentience. What else can you say about language and naming?

SRC: I agree with Robin Wall Kimmerer’s take, but I think that Spanish is almost as limited as English sometimes. Once you start thinking about your relationship to houseplants as something more than utilitarian it’s impossible to deny their agency. I was discussing this recently at home, where my partner and I have not named our plants. We tend to use common names when referring to our plants like Mano de Tigre or Bailarina (a.k.a Christmas Cactus) but we refuse to give them personal names. I used to think that naming plants was a very hierarchic gesture, an effort to anthropomorphize them so that we can care for them as if they were another human. Names add value and somehow we always take better care of what we cherish. I guess there is a difference in between saying “one of my cactus needs water” instead of “Carlos is dying of thirst.” I wonder if nameless plants receive less care…

But it seems impossible to escape names, we still have to address, acknowledge and honor the living beings around us. Some plant owners decide to use the scientific or Latin name of their plants because it is perceived as closer to the “true nature” of the plant. It is important to remember that many of those names are simply based on the external qualities of the plant and many more are even based on human names. Even Carl Linnaeus, “father of modern taxonomy”, was naming species in honor of his wealthy patrons. It is important to stablish a non-hierarchical nomenclature in which common names are not perceived as naïve, un-professional or less important than scientific names.

BRM: The song you play in the video is a slowed-down version of What does it take to win your love by Jamaican musician Alton Ellis. Why did you decelerate the pace? 

SRJ: Deceleration is such a great word; although the Rocksteady genre in itself is a decelerated version of Jamaican Ska, by slowing things down I wanted to accentuate the bassline even more. This bassline creates a steady rhythm and mood that I associate with the action in the video. When time is extended in a song one can pick up more nuances in sound and composition. For example, Alton Ellis’ lyrics take on a “wailing” tone, similar to the frustration of not knowing if a plant is corresponding all the love one might have for them. By decelerating the pace I also wanted to reference slow dancing, a partner dance in which couples hold each other closely and move slowly, swaying to the rhythm of a slow love ballad in most cases. In general, I feel it is important to slow down in order to pay attention, slow down to listen. I use deceleration as a method of approaching ideas and materials in my work. I tend to ask the audience for time to consider phenomena that is often overlooked or not considered worthy of contemplation. In Costa Rica we would say “llevarla al suave” which translates to taking it softly (slowly).

Credits

Bárbara Rodríguez Muñoz: We are in a moment of vegetal synchronicity. While your film reads like a love letter to your Mano de Tigre plant, I am mourning my own Monstera deliciosa, which did not pass the new brexit border from London to mainland Europe. How does the exportation of tropical plants relate to your own migration from Costa Rica to Europe? Does she (the Mano de Tigre) create a space to feel rooted?

Sergio Rojas Chaves: Now that you mention it, my experience of migration has been a constant catalyst in my work. It has always been surrounded by feelings of nostalgia and alienation. The first time I lived outside of Costa Rica, I found myself mostly missing my natural surroundings. I was used to living amongst a wide range of flora and fauna that I recognized and enjoyed observing. Coming from the tropics to more temperate areas, I could sense the shift in biodiversity, there was less variety of species. Once, while walking in a forest, I remember being shocked when I realized that it was only populated by two species of trees and one fern species. I was used to dense environments where its almost impossible to count all the species contained in one-square meter of forest.

In addition to feeling nostalgic about the natural landscape, I lived in an area with almost no Latin American migrants so the pressure of cultural assimilation was very strong. While trying to blend in, I started noticing that houseplant keeping was a common practice; growing up I don’t recall having any houseplants. We lived surrounded by the tropical forest so I imagine we felt no need to have any species inside the house. Don’t get me wrong, we did keep some plants in large pots in our garden but a back then it was uncommon to see them indoors.

Perhaps it was homesickness, but seeing these manicured versions of plants I realized how the forest made me develop strong feelings of empathy towards them. I felt as if these plants came from the same place I came from, and they looked as isolated as I was feeling. I knew that the relationship we formed would be a way of connecting to my home. During that time, I had no visitors from Costa Rica, I never got a chance to welcome someone into my new surroundings so I started treating the plants as my guests. I think that despite their commodification, tropical houseplants, like the Mano de Tigre I live with, can open a space for us to feel rooted, valued and at ease. It all depends on the kind of relation we foster with them.

BRM: Tell me more about your interest on the role of houseplants today, the tension between being commodities and being companions?

SRC: As I keep trying to understand my relation to houseplants, I have become intrigued about the perspective of other plant keepers. Trying to understand and document the multiplicity of roles a houseplant can have in someone’s life is important to see how houseplant keeping practices have evolved.

I am particularly interested in the inherited colonialism of decorating with tropical plants. The houseplant keeping practice that we know today originates during the Victorian Era when, thanks to the invention of the Wardian case, plants could be collected and sent from colonial territories to Britain. Owning tropical plants quenched a thirst for “the exotic”; they were commodities reminiscent of the vast control of the Empire. Today, the idea of a “jungle-at-home” still bears the traces of this desire to posses or control the wild and exotic appeal of these plant species; to be king or queen of one’s own jungle. Unlike other domestic species, groups of plants are referred to as “collections”, so it is hard not to draw the parallel to other types of collectible ornaments. The interest in collecting rare plant species is also reminiscent of hunters looking for animals they could turn in to trophies; rare plants become coveted status symbols that can boost one’s reputation as an “invested” plant keeper.

However, I am aware that not all relationships that people develop with their plants are based on aesthetic ideals. Many people develop strong bonds with their plant companions, sometimes even naming them. Although these bonds are strong and the feelings are genuine, I can’t help but think about the tension between care and control that happens in these scenarios. Are these plants fulfilling our need to feel responsible for another living being? It appears as if sometimes we put ourselves in the position of caregivers yet not all gestures in plant keeping are considerate of the plant’s needs. Is restraining root systems an act of care? How about trimming stems and leaves in favor of a specific aesthetic? Are we fostering perpetual ornaments or silent companions that rely on our care to survive? I believe it’s important to reassess our approach to this practice and ask ourselves what our intentions and motivations are in order for us to have a respectful relation with the plants we live with.

BRM: I undertand that a strong influence in your work is Canadian ethnobotanist Nancy Turner and her approach to ethnobiology.

SCR: Yes, I am immensely grateful of having had the chance of discussing many of the question driving my research with Nancy Turner. When I arrived in Canada, I had just finished working on a series of environmental conservation projects in Costa Rica. I felt very close to that environment and I struggled to find that same attachment to the West-coast Canadian landscape. Nancy’s perspective, which is strongly informed by that of the Coast Salish peoples, helped me have a greater appreciation of the areas I was inhabiting. In our conversations, I understood the importance of honoring and acknowledging the presence of all those around you (human and non-human). I also learnt the importance of contextualizing practices and ideas; she insists on the value of sharing stories as a way to understand our relation to the natural world. Her approach makes you feel that every detail of a story is important, every perspective counts. I admire her conviction of including non-academic writing into ethnobotanical practices, as a way of acknowledging that most of the knowledge we have about certain plants has not been recorded in the same way as data collection has.

At that time, I was struggling to find some references for my research, all studies on houseplants were about air quality but none about their history, uses and relation to humans. Houseplants tend to be a footnote in books about agriculture and colonialism. I had to start piecing those things together myself and Nancy was there to point me in the right direction, providing references, insight and encouragement.

BRM: We share an interest in Robin Wall Kimmerer’s writings. In the Learning the Grammar of Animacy, she talks about the limitations of English language to acknowledge plants (and other non-human species) agency—we reserve the pronouns of personhood for humans. She explains how Potawatomi and other indigenous language dissolve the boundaries between animals, plants and landscapes. You chose not to use “it” to describe your plant and in this way you honour her liveliness and sentience. What else can you say about language and naming?

SRC: I agree with Robin Wall Kimmerer’s take, but I think that Spanish is almost as limited as English sometimes. Once you start thinking about your relationship to houseplants as something more than utilitarian it’s impossible to deny their agency. I was discussing this recently at home, where my partner and I have not named our plants. We tend to use common names when referring to our plants like Mano de Tigre or Bailarina (a.k.a Christmas Cactus) but we refuse to give them personal names. I used to think that naming plants was a very hierarchic gesture, an effort to anthropomorphize them so that we can care for them as if they were another human. Names add value and somehow we always take better care of what we cherish. I guess there is a difference in between saying “one of my cactus needs water” instead of “Carlos is dying of thirst.” I wonder if nameless plants receive less care…

But it seems impossible to escape names, we still have to address, acknowledge and honor the living beings around us. Some plant owners decide to use the scientific or Latin name of their plants because it is perceived as closer to the “true nature” of the plant. It is important to remember that many of those names are simply based on the external qualities of the plant and many more are even based on human names. Even Carl Linnaeus, “father of modern taxonomy”, was naming species in honor of his wealthy patrons. It is important to stablish a non-hierarchical nomenclature in which common names are not perceived as naïve, un-professional or less important than scientific names.

BRM: The song you play in the video is a slowed-down version of What does it take to win your love by Jamaican musician Alton Ellis. Why did you decelerate the pace? 

SRJ: Deceleration is such a great word; although the Rocksteady genre in itself is a decelerated version of Jamaican Ska, by slowing things down I wanted to accentuate the bassline even more. This bassline creates a steady rhythm and mood that I associate with the action in the video. When time is extended in a song one can pick up more nuances in sound and composition. For example, Alton Ellis’ lyrics take on a “wailing” tone, similar to the frustration of not knowing if a plant is corresponding all the love one might have for them. By decelerating the pace I also wanted to reference slow dancing, a partner dance in which couples hold each other closely and move slowly, swaying to the rhythm of a slow love ballad in most cases. In general, I feel it is important to slow down in order to pay attention, slow down to listen. I use deceleration as a method of approaching ideas and materials in my work. I tend to ask the audience for time to consider phenomena that is often overlooked or not considered worthy of contemplation. In Costa Rica we would say “llevarla al suave” which translates to taking it softly (slowly).

Credits