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storytelling relationality materials

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Pedagogist: Maria Jeong

Educators: Ana Zeballos, Zoré Honkanen, Cecilia Hipol, Hamideh Valiabedini

Children: Kate, Myriam, Ashton, Lewis, Mila, Martin

With support from ECPN leadership team – Meagan Montpetit & Veronica Pacini-Ketchabaw 

Pedagogical Orientation 

As an ECPN pedagogist working in early years programs in North Vancouver, I aim to create conditions that interrupt individualistic and outcome-oriented narratives—particularly those that position materials as neutral tools for achieving developmental goals. These narratives narrow pedagogical possibilities by reducing materials to means for predetermined outcomes. In contrast, drawing on posthumanist perspectives and the propositions offered in Encounters with Materials in Early Childhood Education, I work with educators to think with materials as co-constructors of experience, rather than objects to be used. This requires an orientation that recognizes the vitality of materials and the ways in which meaning emerges in and through relations. 

By approaching materials with children through repetition, sustained engagement, and re-enactment, we begin to unsettle assumptions about who and what leads learning. We orient ourselves toward moments of curiosity, uncertainty, and co-participation. In one such encounter, educators and I begin working with charcoal alongside children, attending to the gestures, marks, and stories that materialize between bodies, surfaces, and matter. 

Creating and nurturing conditions 

For the past four years, educators, children, and I have engaged in weekly encounters with charcoal. Choosing charcoal is a deliberate pedagogical decision—one that resists the framing of materials as tools for individual expression or skill development. Instead, charcoal invites us into intimate moments of encounter that foreground relation. It is not simply a medium for drawing, but a material that gathers us together—across gestures, memories, and marks. Charcoal holds the capacity to trace not only what is seen, but also what is felt and remembered, creating conditions for collective meaning-making that unfolds over time. 

Charcoal invites us to attend closely to its range of shades in ways that crayons, or other drawing tools do not. Its material qualities—softness and roughness, smudgeability, and the ability to layer light and dark—allow for a fluidity that resists containment. These qualities create conditions for encounters that extend beyond the paper. As charcoal smudges and travels across surfaces, it also finds its way onto our fingers, hands, feet, and into the classroom. This movement becomes more than mark-making—it becomes what we have come to call “charcoaling.” 

“Charcoaling” names a shared, relational experience where bodies, materials, and space are entangled in ongoing motion. The shades and traces of charcoal linger on skin and in the environment, shifting pedagogical attention from product to process, from representation to relation. In this way, charcoaling becomes a mode of being with, rather than doing to—a practice of attunement to the more-than-human dynamics of early childhood spaces. 

To initiate this inquiry, the educators and I made an intentional decision to shift the rhythm and flow of the classroom. We recognized that creating the conditions for sustained relational encounters with charcoal required us to move away from tightly structured routines and outcome-driven expectations. This decision aligned with our broader pedagogical commitment to disrupt individualistic and developmental narratives that position materials as mere tools for learning. Instead, we sought to cultivate a collective and collaborative space where children, educators, and materials could co-create meaning through ongoing encounters. By making time to linger with charcoal—to be with rather than move through—we honoured the pedagogical possibility of materials as active participants in our thinking and doing. This reorientation continues to guide our practice, shaping how we attend to materials, time, and relation in the everyday life of the classroom. 

The following field note traces the emergence of charcoal monsters—figures that took shape through our collective practice of charcoaling. These monsters did not appear suddenly or from elsewhere; rather, they emerged within the specific conditions we have carefully nurtured over time. This story does not attempt to capture everything that unfolded in our encounters with charcoal. Instead, it honours the entanglements, gestures, and relations that gave form to these creatures. Woven throughout are memories from earlier moments with charcoal—traces of past engagements that continue to shape how we make sense of the present. These punctuations are not interruptions but reminders of how inquiry builds across time, inviting us to remain attuned to what persists, returns, and transforms within our ongoing pedagogical relations. 

Remembering Charcoal 

It is our second year of being with charcoal. We gather around a large sheet of white paper, firmly taped to the floor—a soft invitation stretched across the room. A small basket of compressed charcoal, some worn down from past encounters and others still full in their form, rests in the centre. The children reach toward the charcoal with a quiet familiarity, their gestures shaped by memory. Smudges begin to bloom across the paper, and charcoal slowly travels—onto fingertips, across palms, settling into the creases of skin. 

Kate pauses, noticing how her hands have transformed. She opens her palms wide and offers them to me with delight: “Look at my hands!” Her voice carries across the room like a spark. Other children look up, drawn into her wonder, stretching out their own hands in response—blackened, textured, alive. The educators and I join in too, sharing our marked hands in a quiet chorus of gestures. In this moment, we are held together by the material and its movement—charcoal not only in our hands but also in the air between us. 

Why charcoal? 

Charcoal is a material that holds complexity—it can be found in natural environments, yet it is also manufactured and shaped for artistic use. Educators and I do not position charcoal as inherently better or more authentic than other materials, but we are interested in what becomes possible when we engage with it closely and repeatedly. Its responsiveness to pressure, ability to smudge and spread, and tendency to leave residue on surfaces—including skin—invite particular forms of attention and interaction. 

Educators and I noticed how children adjusted their pressure when using charcoal, becoming attuned to the way it reacts to their movements. Although it appears rigid and brittle, children often rubbed it on their hands, attending to its soft texture and the marks it leaves behind. These interactions drew our attention to how charcoal resists containment—it moves easily beyond paper, leaving traces on bodies and in the classroom environment. 

In our first year of engaging with charcoal, educators and I explored with children the various types and sizes of charcoal to better understand how its form influences our relations with it. Over time, different preferences emerged. Some children and educators were drawn to unwrapped sticks that marked the skin, while others preferred charcoal pencils, which could be handled with less mess. These preferences became part of our inquiry, shaping how we noticed and responded to material engagements. 

We also found that charcoal’s limited colour range prompted a different kind of storytelling. Without relying on colour, children often attended more closely to form, gesture, and texture in their drawings. This raised questions for us: What possibilities emerge when working with a material like charcoal? What kinds of stories, movements, or relations are made possible—not because charcoal is exceptional, but because it matters in particular ways? 

Remembering Charcoal 

On a warm summer day, I brought in three pieces of burnt firewood from a weekend campfire and laid them on a large sheet of paper. Until then, we had only been using charcoal purchased from a local art store, and educators and I often wondered what might become possible with charcoal sourced from fire—what other textures, gestures, or stories it might activate in our encounters. The presence of the firewood—large, uneven, and slightly crumbling—was both inviting and uncertain, evoking a different kind of attention. 

Mila approached one of the wooden pieces and slowly placed her hand on it, tracing its rough texture. She curled her fingers as if to hold it, and a small piece unexpectedly broke off in her hand. Surprised by its fragility despite its solid form, she continued to explore it—rubbing her palms across its surface, watching as tiny fragments scattered onto the paper. Her movements shifted between pressing, breaking, and gathering, as if in conversation with the charcoal itself. This new form of charcoaling unfolded quietly, shaped by the firewood’s weight, its resistance, and its slow disintegration. 

Rituals emerge

These charcoal encounters have given rise to rituals—practices that resist developmental and neoliberal logics about how toddlers should engage with materials. Rather than sitting at tables in individual chairs, each with a single material and their socks and shoes on, children are invited into a dedicated time and space where their bodies can fully engage with charcoal. Here, charcoal is not only touched by hands but also pressed, traced, and smudged by feet. 

These rituals are not imposed but emerge through repeated encounters. They are created and sustained by the children and honoured by educators and me. Through them, we collectively disrupt the routines that often prioritize order, efficiency, and individual progress. Instead, we nurture a space where relations, gestures, and shared rhythms matter. 

Charcoal evokes—leaving marks, erasing, smudging, and lingering. But it does not act alone. It becomes meaningful through the conditions we co-create—through the events, movements, and rituals that take shape between children, educators, and material. In this way, charcoal is not just used; it participates. 

Remembering Charcoal 

The classroom hums with transition. At the table, a few children linger over the last bites of their morning snack. Others make their way to the washroom, small hands reaching for soap and water. Near the cubbies, an educator helps a child into her muddy buddy while another waits patiently on the couch, watching as I clear a corner of the room. I lay down the fabric canvas, smoothing it over the floor—an invitation quietly forming. 

When I bring out the basket of charcoal, a small group of children begins to gather. Without a word, they begin removing their shoes and socks, as if their bodies remember what comes next. One by one, they step onto the canvas, bare feet meeting charcoal dust and softened fragments. They bend down to touch it again—this familiar, unpredictable material. In the midst of the classroom’s movement, a different rhythm takes hold: slower, attentive, shared. 

Monster Feet  

Myriam pulls my hand toward the sketchbook and places it palm down on the page. Holding a small charcoal stick, she begins to trace around it. She moves carefully between each of my fingers, then around the edge of my palm. When she finishes, she lifts my hand from the page and looks at the outline left behind. 

Myriam places her foot on the sketchbook. With her left hand, she steadies it, adjusting slightly to make space for the charcoal. In her right hand, she holds a small charcoal stick—always the stick, never the pencil or the block. She begins to trace, slowly moving around the curves of her foot. When she reaches her toes, she pauses, then gently spreads them apart with her fingers, guiding the charcoal between each one. The stick, with its slim shape and dusty surface, allows for this kind of close, careful movement—leaving behind fine, dark lines that echo the shape of her foot in pieces and fragments. 

More children begin to gather around the sketchbook. One by one, they place their feet on the page, tracing outlines of themselves and each other. The canvas fills with overlapping forms—feet in motion, feet held still. 

Myriam places her other foot in the sketchbook. Ashton picks up a charcoal stick and begins to trace, slowly moving around the curves of her toes and along the edge of her heel. His charcoal moves with care, attending to the shape of her foot as if following a map. Lewis crouches beside them and begins tracing alongside Ashton, adding another layer of charcoal around Myriams’s foot. As the charcoal brushes her skin, Myriam giggles and curls her toes in response. Lewis pauses, holding the charcoal midair. He looks up, then watches Myriam’s foot closely—listening with his eyes, adjusting his movements to follow what her foot is telling him. The tracing slows. A quiet rhythm emerges: draw, curl, pause, adjust. 

“This is a monster’s feet!” 

Educators and I invited Myriam, Ashton, and Lewis to return to the sketchbook and revisit the tracings. Myriam places both feet on top of the outlines and traces them again with a small piece of charcoal. The lines begin to overlap—some darkened, some smudged, some broken. When she finishes, she steps off the page and squats down in front of it. Pressing her hands into the marks, she looks closely and says, “This is a monster’s feet!” 

Since the discovery of the monster’s feet, its presence lingers—in and outside the classroom. It reappears unexpectedly, woven into play, conversation, and gesture. The monster is not just remembered; it is lived with. It shows up in new traces, in small utterances, in the movement of bodies across space. 

Educators and I wonder alongside the children about how we can continue to engage with the monsters. We wonder:  

What does the monster look like?  

Where is the monster?  

What is the monster doing? 

The children continue to return to the monster—through play, drawing, and conversation. It reappears in sketchbooks, in gestures, in new marks that stretch across the page. They wonder aloud, sometimes quietly, sometimes all at once: What does the monster look like? Where might it be? What is it doing now? These questions surface in the rhythm of the day, shaped by shared attention and curiosity. 

The sketchbooks fill with new shapes and possibilities. The monster takes form and loses it again—never fixed, always becoming. Through marks, stories, and gathering around the page, the children stay with the monster, giving it space to shift, return, and move with them. 

The children return to the monster feet—now cut out, laminated, and placed on a new sheet of white paper taped to the floor. They approach these familiar traces with care, crouching down to observe them one by one. Some reach out to touch them, others circle around, looking closely. The monster feet are no longer fixed to the pages of the sketchbook—they move, shift, and invite new possibilities. In this encounter, the children begin to explore where the monsters might go, how they might live, and what it might mean to care for them. 

With the monsters’ feet, Kate begins to draw on the white paper. She pauses amid her drawing and looks around for other monster feet. She places the monsters’ feet on her drawing and says, “Monster lives in the flower!”  

Myriam attentively watched Kate and once Kate exclaimed the monster’s flower, Myriam makes more marks beside it and said, “This monster live on this”. She then grabs the other monster’s feet that were left alone on the side to bring to the drawing she just created.  

Maria “It looks like all the monsters are home!” 

Kate “Shhhh.”  

Maria “Oh, are the monsters sleeping?”  

Lewis “Time to wake up!”  

Maria “How do we wake them up?”  

Kate “We have to yell at them and they will wake up! Ahhh!”  

Lewis “When they wake up, they stomp!”  

Myriam “I stomp! Stomp stomp!” 

As the children bring their charcoal drawings to life through the movable traces, they handle the monster feet with care—placing, repositioning, and returning to them throughout the day. The monsters are not static images, but part of ongoing play, stories, and movement. Through drawing, touching, tracing, and naming, the children stay in relation with the monsters. These encounters are not about learning about monsters, but about living with them—building connections that extend beyond the page, into gestures, environments, and the more-than-human world. 

Charcoal continues to live with us in the classroom through ongoing weekly encounters. Its presence invites children into shared moments of drawing, movement, and storytelling—where ideas are built collectively, and marks are made together. These encounters resist the notion of individual creation, instead opening space for relational processes of charcoaling that unfold across bodies, surfaces, and time. 

What once may have been considered messy or disruptive now draws others in. Families arrive and are drawn to the blackened traces, crouching down with their children to touch, to smudge, to make marks. Charcoal, once avoided for the mess it left behind, now gathers us—children, educators, and families—into a shared space of connection. It has become part of the life of the classroom, not as a tool to be used, but as a companion that shapes how we come together, how we pay attention, and how we tell stories with one another.