‘Roaming’ 15 minute film
Recorded and perfomed by Ellen, whilst volunterring and living for 10 days at a Forest Community in Somerset called ‘Tinker’s Bubble’. This research and performance project initiated by her desire to escape from the online world, reconnect with nature and experience living in a physical community. The project included guiding a culture talk on digital technology with the residents and a performance video resulting in a fictional narrative about a lonely e-waste creature.
The Illusion of Disconnection: Notes taken while Roaming
I aIrrived at the forest community seeking something an escape from the hyperconnectivity of modern life, a chance to experience a way of living untouched by digital infrastructures. I wanted to exist outside of screens, notifications, and algorithms. But I quickly realised that even here, deep in the trees, technology lingers. Sat around a fire singing folk songs with the community a looked up at night sky to see a flash of a green line shoot across it. I asked a community member what it was and they said it was a wifi satalight. The world is roaming encompased by them, the internet is everywhere. My body was present, but my identity remained solidified online, tethered to the digital self I had constructed. Even in a place that rejects modernity, I could not escape it.
At night, the tension between these worlds crept into my dreams. Half-asleep in the loft of a wooden house, I saw my costume one I had crafted for performance come to life. It multiplied, faceless figures kneeling around my bed, looming over me. My body was frozen in terror. Sweat dripped down my face until, suddenly, a feeling of revelation washed over me. I fell backward into darkness, and when I emerged, I was standing in the forest, the sun pouring through the trees. In my hands was my camera, the device I had brought to document my time here, to capture my work. But in horror, I watched as it crumbled, the lens disintegrating into dust between my fingers. Then, I awoke.
What did it mean? A friend pointed out the striking contradiction and tensions from the dream, as my artistic practice is often critical of technology, yet it is through technology that I create.
A Place of Non-Places
Living at the forest community felt like stepping into a different universe, a world where time stretched and collapsed. The rhythm of life was dictated by the land, by feeding oneself was an act of labor, emotions seemed to hang in the trees, and the wind carried them through the valley. At times, it felt like time had frozen, yet the days passed too quickly, each one shaped by the shifting elements.
I had always seen nature as an escape, a place to breathe, to be present. But here, I felt exhausted. The birdsong and the beauty that once seemed magical became ordinary, part of the fabric of everyday life. I had come to disconnect, but the presence of technology lingered, even in this off-grid sanctuary. Despite its rejection of the digital world, the community could not exist in complete isolation. People still connected to the outside world via email, zoom calls, and digital networks. Even in a place designed to resist modernity, the need for connection remained. To survive outside capitalist structures, they still had to engage with them.
The Weight of Digital Presence
I sought a place where I could exist outside the loneliness of the digital economy, outside the algorithmic structures that shape our interactions. And for a time, I felt part of something here a community that functioned in an entirely different way. But the presence of my camera, my phone, my need to document, made me an outsider. I was still bound to my digital self.
Sitting by the river, watching the water weave its way through rocks and branches, I felt something shift. A brief moment of stillness, where nothing mattered beyond the flow of the spring, its passage through the forest and into the drinking system of the community. The sound of the water penetrated my body, washing over me with a strange sense of calm. This, I thought, is what presence feels like.
And yet, the emotions of the forest felt heavy. Like they were hanging by a thread, swaying with the elements, fragile yet forceful.
The Monster of Technology
There were moments when I felt like an intruder, a monster bringing digital technology into this space. I had come here to disconnect, but I carried with me the very tools I sought to escape. My camera, my phone - each an invasive device, recording and transmitting life here beyond its immediate environment. What peace had I disrupted in my selfish need to capture and analyze?
I looked at the trees, their roots stretching invisibly beneath me, interwoven into a vast, unseen network. A living web, connecting and supporting, much like the internet which is a structure designed for connection, but one that has been twisted by surveillance and extraction. I had come here seeking separation, but there is no true escape.
This experience left me questioning not just technology, but human choice. The presence of digital tools here wasn’t imposed it was invited, integrated into the rhythms of off-grid life. The rejection of technology was not absolute; it was negotiated, constantly shifting in response to needs and desires.
I had arrived believing in the possibility of disconnection. Instead, I was confronted with a deeper reality: there is no true offline. The digital world brain is everywhere. The question is not whether to engage, but how.
Culture Talk: Rethinking Technology in an Off-Grid Community
At Tinker’s Bubble, I initiated a discussion with the residents on technology and its impact on our lives. My own research explores how digital technologies shape us, particularly the way social media manipulates our attention and rewires our interactions. I wanted to understand how people in a community that consciously limits modern technology experience and navigate these issues.
I started by reflecting on my own struggles as an artist how difficult it is to find uninterrupted space for deep thought and creativity in the "hyperactive hive mind" of online culture. I was curious to hear from the community: How does technology function here? Has it changed over time? What are the benefits and challenges of choosing to live with less digital connectivity?
One resident noted that when they first lived in the community, digital technology was minimal and consisted of a communal laptop for emails and weather updates, no smartphones, and limited internet access. But over the years, change crept in. Now, many members have smartphones, Wi-Fi has been installed in some homes, and digital communication plays a role in community life. "We’re not exactly anti-technology," one person explained, "but we’re more aware of how it seeps in unconsciously." Another added, "Even living here, we’re still part of the same culture. It’s just that we have to be more conscious about what we take in."
A key theme that emerged was baseline shifts. One person remarked, "If we compare ourselves to ten years ago, we’re actually hyper-connected now, but we just don’t see it because the baseline has shifted." Even in an off-grid setting, the presence of digital technology is increasing, and with it, the tensions between convenience and conscious living.
The discussion moved to how technology affects human relationships. Living in an off-grid community exposes certain behaviors that often go unnoticed in mainstream society. "It’s a real mirror," one person said. "You suddenly see your patterns things you wouldn’t question elsewhere." Another admitted that face-to-face communication can feel vulnerable when there’s nothing to "hide behind" no screens, no distractions, just raw, direct interaction. This kind of intimacy can be challenging but also incredibly valuable.
We also touched on the impact of digital culture on learning and knowledge-sharing. In mainstream society, people increasingly turn to Google instead of asking someone for advice, which one resident saw as a loss: "The assumption is that you should already know things because all the answers are online. But what about learning through experience, through storytelling?" Another drew a parallel to food systems, referencing Vandana Shiva’s Monocultures of the Mind: "Western culture has imposed itself as the dominant knowledge system, wiping out localized ways of knowing just like industrial agriculture replaces diverse seeds with one engineered crop."
This led to a conversation about responsibility. Even though we know social media is addictive and harmful, we continue using it. "It’s not them doing this to us," one person pointed out. "It’s us doing it to ourselves." Another speculated that fear of disconnection plays a role: "People are lonely. Social media hooks into that, offering a false sense of connection." This resonated with me, particularly as an artist navigating an industry that increasingly relies on digital networks.
The discussion ended on a reflective note. How do we find balance? Can we create cultures that support deep, intentional engagement rather than shallow, reactive scrolling? One resident described a personal shift: "I used to shut down to overstimulation in the city, but here, I’ve let myself become more sensitive to my surroundings." Another observed, "When you interact with a place prune a tree, care for a space you develop a real relationship with it. In the city, my connections were to pubs and universities. Here, my connections are to the land."
This talk reinforced something I’ve been grappling with in my own work: Technology isn’t inherently bad, but the way we use it and the way it uses us demands scrutiny. Even in a community like Tinker’s Bubble, digital culture is present, subtly shaping behaviors and interactions. But here, at least, there is more space to question it.