Benjamin Kidder Hodges employs fungus and mould to explore memory, decay, and the ability to thrive in extreme conditions and climates.

Part of What Time Tells, an ongoing series on time and the problems we face today. Published in conjunction with Countering Time, AAA’s exhibition about archival time and the idea of afterlives.

Fungi persist within their own timeline. Moulds, mushrooms, and other fungal spores are everywhere but not always visible. They are a latent potential in the air that can appear all of a sudden after rain, on fruit left out too long, or on every surface when returning to an apartment after a long trip. They flourish in the everyday detritus of life. They flower in an almost forensic fashion, showing a record of daily life, crumbs left on the floor, tables not wiped clean, and computer keyboards rich with fingerprints. They offer a map of our interaction with a microbial world and are a reminder of our cohabitation with other species.

In addition to this material record of our habits, they can have an impact on our memories too. Anyone living in the especially humid subtropical and tropical climes of Asia knows how easily fungus appears on camera lenses, on photo albums, and film itself, clouding or otherwise obscuring our personal archives of the past. They can eat away at memories, writing their own fungal history. Museums, states, and families have to actively manage their archives, working diligently to preserve them and ward off such fungal decay and erasure.

Given that fungi are so perfectly adapted to these humid environs, surely they have a thing or two to teach us about surviving and thriving in all this heat and humidity? How might we also flourish in such an environment and preserve records and memories against decay?

^{Image: BioArt by Crystal Wai Man Chan featuring mould on red wine, soy milk, mango juice, soy sauce, tea, and milk, SVA Bio Art Lab 2016.}

We might look to BioArt artists who have experimented with a wide variety of fungal collaborations, intentionally cultivating fungi on film and other media to highlight the beauty in its many forms. Narrative filmmakers have also used mould, especially black mould, as a horror and gothic convention, a clear sign of decay and neglect. Unlike monstrous threats of a more defined human or animal form, mould’s danger lies in its ambient presence and infectious nature. In the Last of Us and other dystopian fictions, it spreads virally, threatening human life and whole cities. It is a recurrent expression of a very human fear of toxic environments and apocalyptic collapse. Much like the nuclear threats of the Cold War era, mould and other fungi are a perfect post-COVID embodiment of our worries about exposure and fragility in the face of climate change and the anthropogenic effects we have wrought on nature.

Cruel Optimism in the Tropics

Lauren Berlant writes within a particularly North American context about feelings of crisis and precarity felt in the gap between one’s daily life and the unrealised promises of “the good life.” What they term “cruel optimism”¹ arises in this chasm between positive visions of the future and our inability to achieve them. It’s not simply that the life we want is out of reach, it’s that the thing we desire to get there is actually an impediment to our own wellbeing. These out-of-reach futures are often informed by dreams of the past, visions inherited from previous generations that may no longer even be applicable or achievable. The precarity of the present is in part this feeling of disconnect and the fear that there is no way to find traction, a foothold, or grip with which to pull oneself up. The fear is that today and yesterday may not ever make it to tomorrow.

What happens when we try to map these same ideas about time and precarity to Asia? It is difficult and perhaps foolish to try and define a region so diverse. At the risk of environmental determinism, it is interesting to consider how its many tropical and subtropical regions might contain other ways of thinking about precarity. In these regions, humidity and heat speed up certain processes. Materials break down faster in humid coastal atmospheres, plastics degrade into microplastics, metals rust and corrode. The tropics also create damp environments, ideal breeding grounds for mould and other fungi.

What is an ideal environment for one organism’s flourishing can be an impediment for others. The heat and humidity of the tropics call for different ways of managing environments and caring for the body. In these climates, air conditioners, dehumidifiers, and heat pumps are used to combat humidity, converting electricity into comfortable, cool, dry air. But these technologies rely on enclosures to work effectively. They only work in bounded interior spaces, meaning their comforts can only be felt in certain places, at certain times.

There must be other ways to stay safe and cool. How did they manage this in the past without all of these modern conveniences to cope with heat, humidity, and prevent unwanted mould? Is it that the architectures of the past let the air circulate in ways so as to prevent the spread of mould? Or is it that the materials of the past were more readily disposable, temporary, and sustainably replenished, an effective cycle of seasonal renewal? Traditional building materials such as clay and limewash are naturally antifungal and their very porosity additionally enables more rapid drying. Whatever the technique or technology employed, it is clear that one of the ordinary challenges of the tropics is how to live with its environment. Any grander visions of success and the good life must be integrated with these daily concerns about how to maintain one’s body and home. 

The Time of Mould

Fungi write their own histories and futures on other things. In doing so, they may sometimes overwrite our own memories, but they also might be able to teach us a thing or two about persevering on otherwise inhospitable surfaces. Thinking with fungi, we may begin to think about preservation, memory, and decay in new ways.

There seems to be a natural human repulsion to mould and other fungi. It’s easy to feel disgusted when seeing mould: when having to throw away mouldy bread, cheese, and produce. Mould in all its sickly shades of blue and green looks gross and stands out. We learn to associate it with poison and harm; but fungi are also mechanisms of transformation and decomposition. They appear in decaying matter and help compost the remains of life creating fertile environments for other species.

And of course not all fungi are the same; what might be an unwanted intrusion in one context is an ally in another. Red yeast rice is produced by leaving the mould Monascus purpureus on white rice for a few days. The reddish mould grows on the rice giving it its colour. Yeast, another kind of fungi, found in starters like Jiuqu and Koji make fermentation processes possible. Without them, there would be no baijiu, sake, or miso. Not to mention cheese, wine, bread, and a whole host of foods dependent on fungi.

The collaboration between mould, yeast, baker, and brewer is an active process of combining and waiting. Fungi take time to take effect. In these moments of waiting, and in the many centuries of our traditional use of them, codependent multispecies relationships have formed between us and fungi.

The microbial lesson here is that the past and the future must be carefully managed in the present. Mould actively consumes and transforms materials. It changes things. Mould is an excellent example and symbol of transformation. It is a reminder and material proof that things are always changing. 

Preservation and Mould

So if we apply this example of mould and fungus to time, we see that the past is always being consumed and transformed into something new. Preservationists and archivists face the daunting task of managing this change. Museums are equipped with specific technologies like hydrometers and climate control systems to guard against decay and fungus. I wonder how many of us have embarrassingly mistaken these hydrometers for seismograph machines, their paper tapes monitoring a potential catastrophe?

While the home is not equipped with the same technologies or staff as a museum, there is still much the home can learn from the museum regarding techniques for memorisation and preservation. Dusting, vacuuming, and just a general accounting for our ever-expanding inventory of things is important.

In the home, the well prepared among us might have dry boxes, Tupperware, or other such plastic containers to guard against mould; but often photos and family records are left exposed on their own to the elements. Books and prints can also develop foxing, a kind of browning that in some cases is caused by mould that appears on paper as it decays. All of these markings and marrings that appear over time, especially in humid environments, threaten our ability to remember and preserve the past. 

Memories are like houseplants, they can only survive on their own for certain periods of time. When we are away from home, photographs, personal papers, and house plants all still need care and attention. This is especially troublesome for those of us living with families and work spread across different time zones. Work trips, family visits, and vacations mean that house plants and the home itself, including all its material memories, are left to fend for themselves. We rely on friends and neighbours to pop in and check on them if we’re away for too long. They need water, sunlight, and a little attention to survive.

We can add to this list all the digital memories stored in hard drives and out in the cloud. If they are not cared for they too might be lost in time. Digital files and photos deserve the same care but they can receive even less attention than their physical equivalents. It’s easy to take for granted that they are preserved in some kind of timeless cloud, even if in fact they reside in some equally precarious roadside data storage centre. What will happen to them when the electricity fails or the economic and electrical infrastructure that supports these cavernous data storage warehouses collapses? What will happen when they are unexpectedly flooded by a nearby stream or consumed by some other kind of natural or anthropogenic disaster?

^{Image: Photograph by author featuring warehouse storage facility under construction in Central Virginia along US Route One.}

For all their detrimental impacts on material, mould and fungus can also act as a kind of bellwether, an early warning system to remind us to tend to our memories, whether they be physical or digital. Mould and fungi are never fully banished from the home or the museum. They are everywhere and they are resilient. Like a memory, they can lay dormant for years waiting for the right conditions to spring to life. 

Allergies and Attunement

Mould also has a way of getting into things, including us. They say if you stay long enough in a place, you are more likely to become allergic to it. Over the years living in Macao, I have become allergic to dust and mould, two things I never thought much about. This sensitivity comes with a kind of attunement. You become aware of the potential for unwanted mould and other potential allergens.

This happens at different scales. After a typhoon, everyone has learned that flooded car parks and cars can be damaged—not just from the initial storm water, but also from an aftermath of unwanted mould. And on a smaller daily scale, I have learned that sunny days are particularly valuable. You have to pay attention and take advantage of them, so you can wash clothes and hang them out to dry. You have to remember to bring them in too if it starts to rain and obviously before you go to sleep—otherwise they will smell like mildew.

I have also learned particular ways of managing one’s home in the tropics. I know now that you have to run the air conditioner not just for your own benefit but to keep the apartment dry. And when leaving town, you have to have someone stop by to run the dehumidifier. You can’t just leave things alone and expect them to remain the same upon your return.

You learn all these different practices to keep the mould at bay. You think about getting a dryer to make your life easier, but there isn’t really enough space, is there? There is never enough space. This is a fact only compounded by all the associated materials that go along with having kids or being an artist. Each one of these life choices brings with it a whole host of associated supplies, products, and materials. So you have to learn to pack things carefully too, to put clothes, mementos, and souvenirs in airtight boxes. You can’t afford to be careless or you’ll have to throw it all out.

And in dark nooks and crannies mould might still find its way into your apartment. In the bathroom in the grout between tiles, on the ceiling or behind rarely moved cabinets, mould finds its way into our lives. So you learn from forums, neighbours, and colleagues about bleach and vinegar. You learn that you have to leave it on for a bit to really get at the roots of the mould. If you don’t, it will just come back.

And in some areas it has already etched its way into the paint, so you go to the paint store and learn about each brand’s mould prevention formula. You choose a colour even if you’re unsure if it fits with your ever-evolving aesthetic.

These daily practices to prevent mould have become a habit. They are done without thinking, they just have to be done. They are the ordinary measures we take to ward off dangers lying in wait. And we remain at the ready, attuned to the slightest signs and whiff of mould.

Fungi in a Time of Crisis

The pace of mould, yeast, and other fungi feels like a separate time that happens when you aren’t looking. In fact, it is a biological process that moves forward whether you are paying attention or not. Nonetheless, it can feel like they grow faster when we aren’t monitoring them. They amass when we are away. We come back home only to be surprised at how quickly they have spread; and no matter how much you clean, how detailed you try to be, mould still seems hidden somewhere—you can smell it even if you can’t see it. 

Frequently shuttling back and forth between the States and Macao has meant thinking about all these questions of memory and preservation. One quickly learns that you can’t fit everything into two checked bags and a carry-on. However frequent one’s travels, our digital lives are increasingly spread across a global network of data centres, applications, and platforms. So whatever one’s mobility, our pasts and memories increasingly reside in anonymous sites spread between multiple places. How do we care for them while we are away?

^{Image: Photograph by author featuring warehouse storage facility under construction in Central Virginia along US Route One.}

These questions of preservation and precarity at a distance are newly relevant, especially as memories and media are susceptible to all kinds of environmental threats, whether they be sudden catastrophes or the slow erasure of fungi. The very pace of fungal growth, however, can serve as a helpful, timely reminder of the care we must take in preserving things. We have to bring them out in the open on occasion, check on them and make sure they are preserved and remembered. These habits of remembrance and care are applicable, whether one is talking about laundry, a painting, or digital files stored in the cloud.

And while I have learned to take more care to guard against mould and other fungi at home, I do not always practice what I preach. Not all of my family photo albums, artwork, and important documents are stored away in carefully sealed containers. I’ve never been as good at managing these as I have been at taking new photos, making new work, and amassing new memories. Dust and mould are quick to build up and remind me of the dangers of leaving these physical media unattended.

In the heat, humidity, and preoccupations of daily life, thinking too far into the future is a privilege not everyone can afford. Even for those who do have the time, the future can still feel distant, like a promised better world forever out of reach. What fungi show us are ways of thriving, in even the most extreme conditions and climates. By their example and in collaboration with them, we might find new ways of thinking about histories and futures.

Futures themselves can also feel like an ambient threat looming over us. The past can similarly feel like an inescapable trauma. The conditions of crisis, however, stretch out over time. Writing about children and adults dealing with the post-Katrina clean up in New Orleans, Berlant reflects that “crisis turns out not to be fast, but stretched out and slow.”² It takes place over time. Threats may feel immediate, but dealing with their aftermath is a lived condition. Issues have to be lived with and managed.

In this way the time of crisis and the time of fungi parallel one another. They both reside in ordinary moments and spaces. They both can lay in wait for years, dormant, and then seemingly out of nowhere reappear. They never really go away, but we can still find ways to make do, to cope with them, and perhaps even flourish alongside them.

Like archivists, preservationists, and museum technicians, we might find purpose in stewardship and care for the materials and memories of the past. Equipped with household cleaning supplies, sunlight, and a little bit of attentiveness, we can safeguard our memories against the ravages of time and fungi. And even in the face of crisis, we might find a bit of guarded optimism as we make our way through the day.

Benjamin Kidder Hodges is an artist and anthropologist originally from Richmond, Virginia, whose research-based art and writing often draw on folklore, mythology, and media archaeology to call attention to overlooked histories. This involves narrating links between material culture and lived affects from boredom to shock. He has taught in Europe, Asia, and the US, and is currently an Assistant Professor at the University of Macau teaching filmmaking, media studies, and cultural studies within the Department of Communication, where he helped to establish the Creative Media Lab.

Notes

^{1. Lauren Berlant, Cruel Optimism (Durham: Duke University Press, 2011).}

^{2. Ibid., 258.}