‘Field’ is a complex term with a wide set of meanings.
Etymologically – and most concretely – it refers to an open area of land. Yet this openness is complex. A field is less an entirely exterior wilderness than an area of grassland, paddock or pasture. It is at once open and bounded. It may be surrounded by hedges or fences. Or it may be circumscribed by other geographical features – forests, mountains, swamps and rivers. The combination of openness and determination shapes our experience of going into a field. We have stepped outside. We have stepped out into the world, but at the same time we recognise the limits of this exterior. A field represents a delimited expanse. Its vastness is never absolute. It is not the sublime vastness of the the sea or outer space.
It is perhaps because of the determinate character of a field that fieldwork is possible. One can fruitfully move within this space. One can keep animals, plant crops, conduct research, produce art, etc. Yet the appeal of any field lies not only in its potential productivity and domesticity, but in its openness and risk.