Process
On the autumnal equinox of 2025, I pressed one of the first leaves that fell in the black oak forest where I live. On the winter solstice three months later, I went out in the rain to gather clay-leaf milkcap mushrooms (Lactarius argillaceifolius).
I cut the stipes off of the mushrooms, laid the oak leaf on black watercolor paper, and arranged the mushroom caps gills-down over top. I covered it all with a plastic tub to keep the humidity high, then left it overnight while the caps dropped their spores.
It took a couple rounds, because I can not always tell which mushrooms have already dropped their spores before I got to them. I wanted a little more layering anyway.
Oak Trees and Milkcaps
These oaks and these milkcaps are fused in an intricate ectomycorrhizal symbiosis. The “mushroom” is just a reproductive outpost of a much larger organism whose body is the ground, its fingers entwined with the toes of trees.
The fungus penetrates the surface of tree roots with tiny hyphal filaments. These filaments are not only tangled with the roots like braided strings, but reach right into the root tissue itself, wriggling in between the plant cells. From this extreme physical intimacy, the symbionts exchange resources at the chemical level, much like cells of any other multicellular individual.
The tree, replete with photosynthetic carbon that fungi cannot capture on their own, sends the fungus raw material for growing mycelia and fruiting bodies (which are the “mushrooms” I collected). Meanwhile, the fungus spreads all through the nearby soil. It scavenges for nitrogen, phosphorus, and tiny pockets of moisture too small for plants to access. Then it sends these resources back to the tree, effectively multiplying the oak’s root system by one to two orders of magnitude.
The milkcaps often connect to multiple trees. Seedlings that participate in communal mycorrhizal networks are more likely to survive, hinting that the fungus redistributes resources across its hyphal body in ways that tend to stabilize the stand as a whole.
My Relationship To This Piece
When I look at this spore print, I think of my participation in the forest. I think of the way that lives and environments interpenetrate more and more deeply over time. They adapt to each other, grow and fade in rhythm with each other, entwine until the boundaries between individuals are no longer clear.
I used to think of a forest as a bunch of trees, with some other stuff going on such as brambles and birds. I’ve lived here for four years now, and I’ve learned that the trunks and branches are only the most visually salient part of a “forest” from my human perspective. Even the trees are not “trees”, as I’ve habitually thought of “trees” in the past. They’re much larger and more complicated than that.
When I look at this print, I wonder what I am, to the forest. I feel its tendrils seeping through me. I wonder what marks I leave, and whether I’d like them to be different. I wonder what relationships I am building here, and what they will be like by the next equinox, and the next.
