In 2016, I saw a picture of the rift in the Antarctica Larsen C ice shelf.
The image I saw reminded me of slopes of paint.
It seems innocuous for something so potentially disastrous. Beautiful yet deadly, I wanted to capture it for all posterity.
In Iceland, I went snorkeling in freezing weather. I swam between two tectonic plates – the water is a clear, beautiful blue, like chlorine or mouthwash – but nothing lives in such a pristine environment.
What happens when water floods our worlds? Will they also be a lifeless blue?
Maybe because I grew up by the water – I always return to it, either as a medium or a motif. Even though I grew up by the ocean, where you couldn’t drink a drop, water has always embodied the essence of life.
Perhaps it was the smell. I never found it fishy or stinky; rather, the brininess of ocean water seems to reflect a healthy body teeming with life.
That’s why global warming – the rise of sea levels due to melted freshwater – terrifies me. It’s a topic that I return to, over and over. What happens when we lose our oceans? What happens when we f*ck with the origins of life?
(land creatures crawled from the sea).
Every action has a small, consequential action. The motif of water isn’t complete without its implications.
Nuclear wastewater from the 2011 Fukushima incident has been traced to the beaches of Santa Monica.
What is the impact of our actions?
In 2017, the Great Barrier Reef was declared dead…