Perceiving

You can see your life through your own lens.

You can see without thinking, understand with the words that you’re given. I try to avoid that, and rather to see in such a way that things appear beautiful, because I live with a conviction that they are.

You can see without hewing to the lines that limit and quantize unthinking sight. In place of bothersome dirt I see beautiful entropy and intricate decay. Instead of objects I see shapes in a fabric of visual nuance that transcends division – everywhere is the same shadow, the same dust.

In this perception of “realness” I find fulfillment that I needn’t then seek in complexity. I find feelings more dear to me than I do in luxury or prestige.

Love people for being faulty and pure. Love relationships not for being what you wish they were but for what they are. Look out from a tall building and see the chaotic muted city, and the drab and wintry brown horizon, divorced by dim light from the fiction of the present. And imagine yourself everywhere.

Find places with your feet, see them through your eyes, think, and understand, and bring yourself into them with the creations of a hand. Perception may be limited, but if I can find out what is basic to my life, I am as free as I could ever hope to be.

I am sometimes cursed but more often blessed to desire nothing so much as truth. It has led me to love reality and the universal and simplicity. And these lead me back to mostly normal things, but with love and moderation.

Before I step into the shower every morning I have a little tussle with myself. I can either take a long and comfortable one, or seek my comforts elsewhere and save water. Being groggy, I tend to find the first prospect persuasive. But when I have some mastery of my will I look around at the tiles and the window and find a warmth in their textures that makes the need for water heaters less pressing.

It is enough to see beauty in reality and smile and chat and go to the post office to mail a letter and to sleep when your work is done. It is enough to go to the window before you lie down and see the buildings’ lights in the murky darkness and give yourself a word or two to let the reality find your heart. It is enough to explode at the view from a mountaintop, and be moved by sunset silhouettes and hues. I hope to go through life with little more.

Perception

In The End of Nature, Bill McKibben relates the gravity of humanity’s environmental problems to the limitations of our perception. We cannot directly see slow and subtle changes in the earth’s climate, or easily imagine the effects of our ecological behavior years in the future. Scientific study brings the world’s subtler properties to our awareness – graphs of historical temperature and carbon dioxide data are an effective illustration of the changes we have wrought. But they do not have the psychological power that a disruption of the seasons would to tell us things are out of joint.

Perception laid the foundation for the human phenomenon, and it may also define its limits. People can perceive complex abstract relationships in the world around them that other animals cannot, and so we can solve problems that were once fundamentally limiting. This perceptive ability is the basis of progress – the sciences, art, and philosophy all explore new ways of understanding, while technological innovation applies our perceptive ability to practical betterment. Sixty years ago it seemed to enjoy unbounded success.

But perception constrains just as much as it expands. It is the basis of market failure, where economies fail to optimally allocate resources because some costs are difficult to perceive. There had been no cost associated with the emission of greenhouse gases until very recently, because no-one could possibly know without extensive study of the climate system that such emissions were costly. The nonlinearity of climate and ecosystems is beyond our intuitive perception.

When I must write a paper for class, I don’t often begin but a night or two before it’s due. It gets written, and I have a relaxing time before I start, but the writing is stressful and the product of questionable quality. Climate negotiators in Copenhagen look a lot like me four days before a deadline. One weighs the benefits and costs of starting against the merits of the status quo, which sometimes looks deceptively good.

Inaccurate perceptions lead to incorrect judgements – when I underestimate the difficulty of an assignment, I wait until it makes sense to begin, and then it is too late. When people, due to the lack of immediacy in our perception of ecological and climatic change, underestimate the problem’s size, we wait until the perceived urgency justifies the economic cost. If our perceptions are skewed, that could be the other side of the Rubicon.

Just as my procrastination leads to unpleasant sunday nights, the evidence currently discussed suggests a painful adjustment to new environments, perception aligned only by physical and social immediacy. To improve my academic life, I am trying to temper my perfectionism, and essentially lessen the difficulty of each task. I wish I could make such a prescription for the international community, short of arguing for the unimportance of economic well-being.

But instead of shrinking the problem, there are ways to address the constraints on our perception. To correct for market externalities, we can see commodities in holistic rather than economic terms. Steak is not entertainment-on-a-plate for twenty dollars – it is food with a history that is not captured in the number. Bovine flatulence and labor relations should give us pause, even if we eat it anyway. In all our interactions with the world, we might recognize that more is at work than we can see, and try to see it when we can.

A looser way of improving perception is to consider the simplicity of actions. Simple things are closer to what we would call nature, and more complex ones are more deeply constructed, and generally more costly. Simple things leave room for the rest of the world, while the complicated tread heavily, and squeeze it out. To see things in this dimension, along with some knowledge of environmental issues, allows one a more basic insight into the extra costs of complexity. To enjoy simple things is to perceive more basic and often obscured reasons for living. And to live simply is to set just the example that the world needs.

Walkabout

How much do you know about your neighbor? Not even in the sense of human beings, but in regards to that Chinese Witchhazel on Lincoln field. Did you know that your favorite tree to lean up and study against on those warm Autumn afternoons is in fact a Lacebark Elm which is resistant to Dutch Elm disease? We interact with our surroundings every day, often without thought. Yet isn’t it strange that despite our unconscious pull toward these natural areas, we still are oblivious to the origins of our immediate environment?

Taking the time to take photos of Brown’s campus and its surrounding neighborhoods offered me perspective on how we treat nature. Luckily, Brown was built in a way in which buildings and foliage can coexist. Though we by no means live in a completely unaffected environment, for an urban city I think Brown is situated in an ideal enclave, where grassy fields, plants and trees thrive amongst the hustle and bustle of student life.

Though photographing in late October, I noticed the trees were still in their perpetual state of summertime green and gold. I had heard locals calling this the after-affects of the “Indian summer” Rhode Island had experienced, but nevertheless found it unsettling not to see the deeper reds and orange hues I associate with Autumn. The unusual warm weather also made my photoshoot seem uncharacteristically superficial. Where were the brisk winds of Fall? The crunch of the leaves beneath my shoes? Looking around, I didn’t see anyone staring in horror at the signs of seasonal reversal all around us. Then again, we are all very busy on this campus, aren’t we?

Wandering into the unexplored neighborhood that blends with Brown’s campus, I saw much of what is depicted above: tree-lined streets with the typical colonial houses of New England. Although these households enjoy the shade these trees provide, I’ve always wondered what would happen if we gave back to the trees as well. I tried to convey in my photograph the sense of protection these Spruce and Elm trees give. It’s as if the house is being guarded by branches and leaves. I was thankful not to see any blue vinyl on the houses I passed.

Home

“I wanted to stay in this spot and drift away.”

–Eric Zamora, Wildlife Photographer

Among the vast diversity in which nature takes its form, I think what we unconsciously seek is familiarity. If the web of life consists of systems of networks, where everything is intertwined and dependent upon each other, then we as humans look for which threads we belong to. We seek out friendly landscapes, perhaps the mountains of your childhood or the cognizance of the same sandy shore you could trace by heart. When we come across these rare topographical treasures, a protective emotion overwhelms us. We want these regions to be preserved, as if all the warm affection we hold could distill that distinct area with the sharp, pristine memories in our mind. Those are the feelings that surged through me after looking at Eric Zamora’s photographs of North Cascades National Park in the Pacific Northwest.

The fact that Zamora went on the 14-day trek all by himself may seem daunting, but in some way it makes sense to me. Growing up in Portland, Oregon, I learned about the nurturing element of the wilderness from a young age. Field trips to places like Multnomah Falls in the Columbia River Gorge and the Sandy River taught me to listen to and observe every facet of nature I could take in. Summer camp was an evaluation of the senses; every hike turned into a game as to who could tread more stealthily through the soft paths of the woods. Extra points were awarded to those who didn’t disturb a single plant with their hiking boots. I distinctly remember practicing how to move deftly through the forest like a deer, only to come across a doe and her mother a few yards ahead. I discovered that being alone in nature actually leaves you in quite the opposite state. It is when you feel most vulnerable and infinitesimal that nature steps in as a counterbalance to your bewilderment. Our environment can sustain and support us, if we only let it.

Sun-dappled grassy slopes, blushing red blueberry leaves, deep emerald foliage, towering snow-tinged mountains, tree canopies, rocky cliff faces, acres of old growth—all these set against a sheer veil of cloudless blue sky simply ravishes me. Zamora’s photography enchants its viewers, leaving them wondering what mysteries lay between the fabric of the forest’s evergreen carpet. There’s a sort of lushness that draws you in, a fable-like quality in the silence of the cavernous valleys and misty hill peaks. If anything, staring at these breathtaking landscapes make me question our environmental questions.

Once while I was on the Oregon coast, I ventured to climb Neahkahnie Mountain. I’d always been in awe of the 1600 ft. mass of rock that looms above Manzanita beach which plunges into the ocean and often leaves the small town encompassed in a thick fog. Taking a trail that forks off of Highway 101, I was suddenly submerged in a realm that was cosmically other. Weaving through switchbacks, I became aware of the subtle rustlings of creatures, the flapping of bird wings, the whisper of the swaying branches. Each step seemed to invigorate me with a spiritual absolve. As for the view when I reached the top, I couldn’t tell you. Descriptions like “stunning” or “majestic” don’t do the feeling justice. Only through subjective experience can one begin to understand the intangible nature of the forest’s emotions, balance, magic.

In Zamora’s account of his trek, he notes that only a fraction of the Pacific Northwest’s original old growth remains. While on the drive back through the forests of the Oregon Coast Range, I was jolted by the acres of trees now lost to clearcutting. I wonder if those companies and loggers who practice this harvesting process had ever taken a deep breath from the top of Neahkahnie Mountain; whether they had ever really gotten lost in the forest and let the wilderness embrace them. I wonder what would change if they did.

Progress

I am inclined to reduce environmental problems to their simplest conceptualizations. Humans are an element in the earth’s dynamic ecological system, and we have evolved a difference from the other parts that grows broader and deeper as time goes on. The difference is based in our structuring and manipulation of mental representations of our surrounding world. From this basis comes intelligence, creative problem solving, complex social organization, and the constructed forms that surround me for miles on every side. Human history is characterized by divergence from the “natural” – the less conscious world – in material, cultural, and philosophical dimensions.

I have no love for progress as an intensification of present society. But this is not progress as I would define it, only stagnation. Here we find a more basic definition – the pursuit of ideals that constitute a break with the simpler past. Understanding, truth, and power all draw us to greater representational nuance, and conspire to define our un-natural appearance. In them we progress, for better and for worse.

Environmental considerations suggest that we should conform in certain ways to the principles of our ecological system. This means reining in our values that have grown out of anthropocentric worldviews. But this is not regression; rather, the capacity to refigure our imperatives would be a triumph of human reason over instinct. I see truer progress in changing ourselves than in continuing to carelessly change the world.

This possibility is largely what drives me to study the environment – imagining a post-growth society gives one an outlet for critiques of the present. I love to think about a people freed from imperatives of material accumulation and advancement, awakened to what is meaningful in human existence. I believe that a simple consideration of life leads to different values than we currently espouse, and I see serious environmental disruption as a potential catalyst for cultural change.

The risk of thinking simply about society, though, is that it tempts one to personify something bearing little resemblance to a person. Rather than millions of individual epiphanies, change occurs through political action, economic shifts, and media venues. To describe the first, environmental sociologists use the concept of the “treadmill of production,” the demand for continuous economic growth. Politicians must balance this demand against calls for environmental protection, and economic accumulation is often privileged, despite the rhetoric employed.

The theory of ecological modernization, related to the idea of sustainable development, states that new technologies and corporate responsibility will allow industrial society to reduce its ecological impact while continuing to grow. But this theory represents a best-case scenario, and is based on the economy’s exemplars, not the average firm. The fundamental stratification of society is important to any discussion of its response to environmental change.

Just as many people do not reap the benefits of the progress pushed by economic elites, no form of progress penetrates easily into mass culture. Scientific understanding, artistic forms, and philosophical perspectives are enjoyed in full only by those within certain subcultures. Thus, progressive responses to the environment are made by those close to environmental philosophies, aware of environmental science, and economically able to change their lifestyle, while a majority of citizens practice a faintly modified business-as-usual.

Climate change will likely prove disastrous for some segments of society and bearable for others, but the range of possibilities within that statement makes prediction difficult. What we may confidently say, though, is that adaptation will not be smooth, and progress – technological, scientific, and cultural – will not be profound. But on the other hand, progress will occur, whether by anticipating our problems, or learning from our mistakes.

Unexplored Depths

“The oceans are in trouble. There are some serious problems out there that I believe are not clear to many people. My hope is to continually find new ways of creating images and stories that both celebrate the sea yet also highlight environmental problems. Photography can be a powerful instrument for change.”

–Brian Skerry, National Geographic Marine Wildlife Photographer

There are certain depths we will never reach. However, with the equipment and aesthetic sense of Brian Skerry, we can begin to understand the intricacies of tropical coral reefs and the truth beneath the cores of Arctic ice we unearth. Skerry’s risk-taking within the underwater photography field has shed light upon the elusive creatures of the deep blue. Skerry’s interest in underwater environments was sparked when he first started photographing shipwrecks off the shores of New England. In 1978, he earned his SCUBA certification, which enabled him to start experimenting with underwater cameras. Now he primarily shoots for National Geographic as a marine photo-journalist. Since he works in a vastly unexplored realm of the world, Skerry encounters unprecedented difficulties in his daily work. Fortunately, the strange and wonderful phenomena he manages to capture surpass the trials and tribulations.

The pinnacle of Skerry’s work just so happens to be the one he is the most passionate about. After discovering the fact that the world’s fisheries are becoming increasingly depleted, Skerry became determined to bring the issue into harsh perspective to raise awareness. Entitled “The Global Fish Crises,” Skerry’s exposé delves into the gritty realities of our marine ecosystems, with photos ranging from magnificent Bluefin Tuna to the harvesting methods of large ships to Mako Sharks being finned. Skerry focused on the gillnets, bottom trawls and long lines where fish are captured in excessive amounts to meet human demands. He emphasizes the problem of by catch, where unwanted fish are often caught, killed and then disposed of. Skerry not only photographs the problems he sees, but writes about them as well. Having seen the horrific truth first-hand, he can depict the scene more vividly after going on assignment. He understands that humans take more than our oceans can sustain, and wants to pass that on through his photography.

One of Skerry’s assignments featured the seal-hunting problem in Canada’s Gulf of St. Lawrence. Fishermen who used to harvest cod found that the North Atlantic cod fishery has been dramatically depleted. In 2003, the Canadian government shut down the fishery. Now those fishermen are looking to other available sea creatures to sustain their livelihood, such as harp seals. Although Canada outlawed commercial hunting for whitecoat seal pups in 1987, seal-hunting is on the rise. Skerry also illuminated upon a new problem that has recently emerged: the thinning of North Atlantic ice due to warm winters. Pups rely on solid ice until they have gained enough fat to survive the harsh conditions, while female harp seals use the ice for whelping. Pup mortality rate has increased in recent years.

The issues that Skerry brings to the surface give us perspective on that which is often submerged. Though often invisible to the naked eye, the problems that our earth’s marine ecosystems are dealing with are just as crucial as our terrestrial predicaments. Underwater photography exposes human practices that are unethical and detrimental to marine biodiversity. Skerry has worked with Jacques Cousteau’s organization, the embodiment of a man who pioneered marine exploration and conservation. Skerry and Cousteau share a commonality: the devotion to defend marine environments.

Environmental Integrity

“Why do I care about it? One time out there, on one of my trips, I got to what’s wild, and I looked it in the eye. And when you feel it, I don’t think you can ever go back.”

–Nick Nichols, National Geographic Wildlife Photographer

It’s one thing to have a talent for capturing split-second encounters with a camera. It’s another to have the power to share that instant with the whole world through a medium like National Geographic. Michael “Nick” Nichols wields his photographic skill like a double-edged sword: one to translate the essence of wildness into color print, and the other to instill a sense of wonder and understanding in his audience’s imagination. When Nichols embarks on a new shoot, he is not only reporting on behalf of a journalistic magazine, but effecting change with each click of the shutter. His coverage of tigers in Bandhavgarh National Park in India and various animals in Africa for the magazine’s Megatransect wildlife survey have created reason for the establishments of parks and reserves across the world.

Nichols’ approach is unconventional: he doesn’t aim for pretty. The allure to nature is not beauty, but rather in finding the tension of wildlife. His photos often convey a sense of movement and raw, graphic energy that can only be found at the “edge of survival.” Rather than incorporating the theatrics of his fellow photographers, who often build enclosures or use technological tricks to fake a shot, Nichols shoots for days at extremely fast-paced exposure rates. He doesn’t alter the environment to craft a perfect shot. Instead, he works to find new angles and natural sources of light to depict the animals’ habitat with ingenious innovation.

A ceaseless work ethic became embedded in Nichols during his experience as an expedition photographer. He struck through to the core of the adventurous spirit as he continued shooting even in the most hopeless of conditions. Nichols strives to depict the struggle of the accompanying story through his photographs.

The photographic ethics Nichols struggles with concern the subjects he captures. He questions whether his motives and techniques to shooting Sita, a tiger in India, were valid. Invading the habitat of any animal involves putting a certain amount of pressure on that creature. Where does the photographer draw the line between shooting for the sake of making the animal’s story known and invading the animal’s privacy? Nichols doesn’t uphold the view that “getting a photograph trumps all of your other sensibilities.” Rather, his methods mirror those of his subjects: his stealthy, meticulous manner fits in seamlessly amongst the suspended whispers of the forest.

Through his work with Jane Goodall, Nichols managed to capture the subtle interactions between this compassionate human being and her primate friends. In 1995, Nichols followed her as she established the Tchimpounga Sanctuary in the Congo to help nourish starving animals. The photo below is a candid shot which tells a poignant tale: Dr. Goodall, after approaching an aggressive male chimpanzee, bowed her head and offered her hair to the animal. Nichols attributed this moment to how he and Jane “often communicate without speaking.” With the proper lighting and an artful touch, photography often has that effect.

The environment that Nichols is most comfortable with is the jungle. His exposé entitled Ndoki: The Last Place on Earth featured the elephants, chimpanzees and Babenzele pygmy peoples of Dzanga Bai in the Central African Republic. He wanted to convey the deep, mysterious greens of the rainforest, so he used a 100-speed to mix flash with natural light. Through the foliage in the pictures you can discern endangered species performing their daily rituals.

Creating: A Personal Exploration

When I set out to make my own environmental sculpture, I didn’t know exactly where it would take me. I knew I wanted to create something from nature, but that was about it. For the past weeks, I have been exploring the works of established artists and writing about their different approaches and methods. Some, like Dougherty, take nature and shape it to their own expression. Others, like Goldsworthy, let their expressions be shaped by nature. I wasn’t entirely sure where I was headed, which route I would lean towards more.

I began on a sunny day, a day that positively invited you outside. I walked around campus, considering where I should begin with my sculpture. There were branches strewn all around, owing to a windy night, and so I began collecting them. I amassed quite a pile, and brought them back by the fistful to my dorm. Over the following days, I kept my eyes open, stopping every time I saw another branch that stood out to me.

Before long, I had what I deemed to be a sufficient number of branches for whatever shape they would take. They were stored in an alcove next to my dorm, and for a long time they just sat there. Although I had been thinking and sketching for a while, I had not yet alighted on a definite course of action.

Then I realized that I had been going about it all wrong. This was not a process that could be pre-meditated, but one that had to be experienced and done in the moment. I left my room and went downstairs to gather together my pile of branches.

I then spent some time really looking at them and contemplating them. They were all so similar and yet so different. Each served the same function, but there were differences in color, shape, and texture. I began breaking them into roughly uniform lengths, a process which accentuated the differences and gave each a certain individuality.

Next, I started to mess around with their placement. I stacked them, piled them, arranged them into color gradations and then rearranged them, trying to get acquainted with the subtleties of their differences and similarities.

After a bit, I got up and walked around until I found a spot that felt right. I settled on a tree on the quiet green, right near the Van Wickle gates. I laid my sticks out and paused, really looking at the tree. I picked up one stick and put it down near the base of the tree. Then I picked up another and put it by the first. I did this again and again, spiraling out and away from the tree trunk. Each twig was separate, but together they flowed into one another to form a whole.

It was not much, indeed I felt rather silly just putting twigs around a tree. But then I stopped thinking about what I was doing externally and focused on the process itself. It became meditative, an organic act.

From far away, the spiral fades into obscurity. In fact, until you are walking by it, it is hard to notice it at all.

But then you are upon it, and it makes you stop for a minute. No longer is it just a tree on the quiet green, no longer is it ordinary. But then you must pause and consider: is not all of nature extraordinary?

That which we take for granted every day – trees, grass, leaves – is actually quite amazing when you think about it. Our environment is far more complex and beautiful than we often credit it for. When we think of the natural world as being spectacular, we tend to call the Grand Canyon or Niagara Falls to mind. Yes, these are wonders of nature, but there are just as astounding systems that surround us right at home. The environment is not some far-off, unreachable concept, but an immediate reality. The sooner we can begin to appreciate the wonder of nature as it truly is, the sooner we can merge our immediate environment with the concept of the Environment at large and begin to understand and connect with the essence of nature.

Evolving: Robert Smithson

There is a beauty in the picturesque and the pastoral, but for Robert Smithson, this was not enough. An American land artist born in 1938, Smithson sought to explore nature in its context with man. He felt that there is a continually transforming relationship between humanity and the landscape, and the more destructive this relationship, the better a place it was for his art.

He sought locations that were scarred by industry, urbanization, or the rage of nature itself. This fascination with ruin began in the sixties, when he began to see potential in former industrial areas in New Jersey and the excavation of earth and rock, calling that which the dump trucks hauled out “the monuments of antiquity.”

Smithson’s interest was not only in the relationship between nature and man, but also in that of nature with itself. Oftentimes the destructive powers of the natural world supercede those of humanity, and he wished this to be reflected in his work. To this end, he saw his artwork as continual processes, as many environmental artists do. The creation of the piece was only the beginning. Its life lasted far longer, and never existed in a static state. This temporality was a cornerstone of his work, and he welcomed the changes nature would make in his handiwork.

In 1970, Smithson created his most famous work, Spiral Jetty. Located on the northeastern shore of the Great Salt Lake near Rozel Point in Utah, it is a 1,500 foot long spiral-shaped jetty made entirely of mud, salt crystals, and basalt rocks. Fifteen feet wide, it extends counterclockwise from the shore into the lake.

Smithson constructed the jetty during a drought, and so the water level of the lake was unusually low. When, in the next few years, the water level returned to normal, the jetty was entirely submerged. It remained that way for over three decades until another drought in 2004 exposed it once again. The next spring, though, the water level rose once again, partially submerging the jetty.

Water level change is not the only difference the piece has seen over its lifetime, though. Originally the jetty was black rock against ruddy waters, but now, due to salt encrustation and increased algae populations, it is mainly white rock against pink-hued water.

Smithson’s life was cut short in 1973, leaving the legacy of his works behind. Controversy has arisen over the conservation of his art – some feel that the jetty should be made to resemble its original form by putting a new layer of basalt rocks over it.

Surely, though, this would have contradicted his most fundamental views. He felt that land art should evolve with its surroundings, whether they are changes for the better or the worse. Destruction is a part of the life cycle, and art should be no exception. Nature is beautiful, but it is strong and powerful. Its effects should not be hidden or overlooked, but instead embraced as a continuation of creation.

Understanding: Andy Goldsworthy

“Process and decay are implicit. Transience in my work reflects what I find in nature.”

It may be twigs, it may be leaves, or it may be snow. Andy Goldsworthy, a British-born sculptor, does not discriminate with his materials, but uses whatever he finds at hand. For him, nature is his inspiration, his medium, and his reflection.

He is intimately connected with the natural world, and just as his work comes from the land, he lets it return. There is nothing precious, nothing beyond the grasp of nature. His art is all about the creation and the destruction, the process of life itself.

Generally his only tools are what he, as a human, has at his disposal. He will rip, tear, and bite his materials as necessary, for rarely do man-made tools enter the picture. His aim is to embrace nature as fully as he can in his art, so he keeps away from objects that would interrupt this. Instead of nails, for instance, he will employ small twigs, grass connections, or as in the case of his ice sculptures, his own saliva.

Although some of Goldsworthy’s work is permanent, the majority of it is extremely temporary. For him, the process of its destruction is just as important as that of its creation. Nature is cyclical and changeable, and his art reflects this as it evolves with the environment around it.

To capture the essence of the artwork at its various stages, Goldsworthy relies on the documentation of photography. Although the photos are hardly comparable to actually experiencing the sculptures in real life, many of them are pieces of artwork unto themselves. Without them, there would be little chance for the average person to see his work, for not only are many of his works fleeting, they are also often located deep in nature, out of the reach of most.

There is something magical about the work of Andy Goldsworthy. There is a silence, a peacefulness, and a patience that he captures in each and every work. Whether it is a piece that will remain standing for years to come or one that will get washed away with the tide, there is a beauty that extends beyond the physical presence of the art. His works capture an essence of nature that is all too often overlooked in everyday life.

By simply rearranging that which nature provides, Goldsworthy exposes something that is present all around, something that should not be forgotten. It is the inherent beauty, fragility, and intensity of our natural world.