Mycelium, a Portal into Regenerative Futures Pt. 1

Moving into a new studio-lab, and the journey that lead to it.

Grybai - mushrooms in Lithuanian. Foraging in Nida, a remote seaside town in Lithuania.

Hey,

Transmission of life updates.

Writing this as I sit on a window pane on a 4th floor, fully open to a big chestnut tree overcasting the courtyard. This tree is a neighbor to all of the 4 enclosing houses, families, young and old. Every window overlooking the courtyard meets the tree. Its presence soothes the city dwellers, as intermittent sounds of children echo between the courtyard’s walls. Clouds softly cover the sky, moving humidity in the air ever so slowly. I hear a distant, hypnotic drum flowing out of a speaker. Saturday allows stillness, reflection, observation.

The Tree

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How it found me

Last summer, me and my best friends were staying at a remote Baltic sea town in Lithuania. The weather that week happened to be cold and humid, even in the middle of August. On a one rainy night we decided to watch Fantastic Fungi. It was a perfect idea, after all, Lithuanians are deeply connected to foraging practice to this day.

I grew up going foraging with my family, especially my grandfather. I remember him carrying a special knife, telling me and my cousin that a mushroom had to be cut at the bottom of the stem, and not uprooted. A sign of respect for regeneration—leaving the “roots”. He and my father would come back with baskets full of various mushrooms, ready to be fried, marinated, and made into a soup. There was a particular mushroom that when cooked tasted like a slug. Not ideal for a picky 6-year-old.

So, Fantastic Fungi really felt like something deeply relatable, almost common sense. It reconnected me with a part long forgotten. And on a rainy seaside night, I could feel something change within, a spark of curiosity that lead me down the rabbit hole for the months to come.

Mycelium as biomaterial

It started with researching medicinal mushrooms, their properties and benefits. Adaptogenic powders and tinctures from western marketed brands to local growers and makers. I never thought mushrooms to have these nourishing properties, as my culture viewed them solely as food.

In a few months’ time, I found myself in a workshop on mycelium as a biomaterial, for biofabrication. I could not fully understand the gravity of it, or what it meant at the time. It felt weird in a good way, like I am touching the strange invisible. Something I couldn’t put my finger on, nor understand its place in my life, yet. But the unpredictable textures and their lightness drew me in.

TOP Lab Berlin x Futurium, MY-CO Build workshop, 2021

After the workshop, I set the mycelium box aside in my room, and almost ignored it without wanting to disturb the growth. When I checked it weeks later, I saw something suspicious on the edges of the mycelial structure. It seemed that another being has halted the growth of the fungi.

Failed attempt to grow mycelium at home. You can see black mold setting in around the edges. Later learned that when mycelium lacks humidity, it dries out and weakens—which makes it more susceptible to mold attack.

I felt discouraged, and my explorations stopped for a month, up until the new year. As I had an impending burnout coming my way, I went into a two-week regeneration period right after the NYE. I allowed myself to create, express, move my body, and research.

In that time, I started developing ideas for a project that would allow me to learn deeper about mycelium as a living material. I could see a lot of potential for experimentation, in a field that’s just emerging.

Soon I found a community, so generous with knowledge and open to teaching me further about the cultivation of fungi. I could not believe how flourishing this network was, ready to explore and experiment. Just like mycelium itself.

I could sense a door opening into a new path.

Later, I visited a DYI lab in Potsdam through winter and spring, an hour outside of Berlin. With a purpose to kick off the ideas, start experimenting and iterating. My first mycelium encounter thought me to be humble in my expectations.

Biopunk kitchen, lab in Potsdam

The first lab attempts mostly failed, with some mycelium surviving contamination and mold attacks. I knew there was more to learn. The living material is picky, like a 6-year-old-eater. I will share more pictures in later updates of the project.

Pleurotus ostreatus mycelium, on hemp. Experimental sample.

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Current

Just a few weeks ago, I have moved into a new studio lab space where I’ll be taking the project further. I feel nervous and excited, ready for it to be a deep learning experience.

Moving in day, Rhizome Laboratory in Berlin

Disintegration of the Story

I’m curious to hear about your regenerative stories, practices, projects, research, and art.

I found that many times, creation asks for aloneness or, isolation. But I do not want to create in isolation. It’s a deep illusion that we succumb to, and I have too, believed it for a long time. I am inviting this story to disintegrate, and to find its way back into the primal potential. Before it takes a new form, new narrative.

The first story that is disintegrating, is the story of isolada. Story of isolation. Story of insula. The story, of being island-ed. And that’s what the Part 2 of this post is going to be about—the transformation, and regeneration that requires a certain kind of death.

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