Feral Archives grew out of an ongoing body of research investigating the relationship between living matter, technology, and ritual. Initially conceived as a studio-based exploration of clay, biomaterials, decomposition, and slow fabrication, the project sought to understand how materials can hold both technological and biological memory.

When I was invited to develop a site-specific work within Christl Mudrak’s Forest Research Platform Non-Violence in the Krämerwald, Havelland, I decided to take this funded research into the forest—to allow the environment, rather than the studio, to define the conditions of production.

I worked with a WASP 3D clay printer, carrying it into the woods and living beside it for six days in a tent. The process became a form of techno-ritual practice—a daily negotiation between algorithm and soil, between the measured pulse of the machine and the slow metabolism of trees. Designed for precision and control, the printer instead behaved like a companion, participating in what I began to think of as a technospiritual ecology: a convergence of engineered logic and living systems.

The project shifted from object-making to the observation of relationships—the fragile choreography between a mechanical organism and a living ecosystem. Each extrusion marked a negotiation between code and soil, between the engineered and the feral. Often collapsing, drying, or sinking back into the ground, the prints revealed an exchange rather than an outcome.

These gestures recorded an unstable conversation among matter, humidity, and will. Collapse was not failure but part of a hybrid ontology in which forest, body, and machine co-produce form and decay. Through repetition—mixing, cleaning, restarting—the work approached a techno-somatic ritual, where gesture, code, and breath briefly aligned before dissolving again.

Feral Archives also reflects on machine intimacy—how proximity to a device exposes new forms of care, resistance, and dependency. The printer became a translator between worlds: digital commands absorbed by clay, and clay by the forest. What remains are traces of this exchange—small acts of digital animism that persist beyond the event itself.

I am drawn to the threshold where technology begins to resemble ritual—where programming becomes invocation and production becomes listening. In the forest, the printer ceased to be a neutral tool; it became an interlocutor, a kind of mechanical shaman translating between human intention and environmental response.