Janette Kerr: Extreme Seas Researching sea and ice; interface between art & science
Articles
Perambuling in Frome
Last Saturday I joined a group of people in Frome to participate in an RSA Frome: Street Wisdom event...Given tasks to walk the streets of Frome alone for 10 minutes at a time and think in specific ways before regrouping to be set our next assign...
• Shetland: November 16th – Walking in a Westerly – increasing to severe gale force at times
--> I wake and lie in the warmth listening to the wind bashing about the house. Woken several times last night as the wind started to make its presence felt I’m in no hurry to get up. Looking out I can tell it’s a Westerly. Waves below the house are racing out towards the sea beyond the voe. The sparrows are desperately battling across the track to reach the sunflower seeds I’ve strewn underneath the window. Rain sweeps in. Check the weather forecast: 'Blustery wintry showers on Thursday, mostly of rain, sleet and hail at first, but turning back to snow later. Strong W’ly winds veering N’ly and increasing to severe gale force at times. Minimum temperature 3 °C’.Definitely a day to go to Voe of Dale and check what the sea is doing. Driving bumpily down the pot-filled track I can see waves hitting the black rocks on the far side of the bay, and sit in the car watching for a while, feeling the wind buffeting the car. I’d like to walk out along the cliffs to the end where the crashing sea is forcing spray high up the cliffs, but the way the car is moving about it’s probably not a good idea. Forcing open the car door I grab my rucksack and start to walk along the edge of the low cliff; well it’s more like lurching as gusts blow me about. Anyone watching would be excused for thinking I was drunk. Every so often a blast of freezing spray hits me. After about ten minutes of stumbling about I stop and find a slightly sheltered spot to sit and draw. Black sea flecked white, breaking waves running fast towards me, wave after wave driven shore-ward. Rain then hail then the sky lightens, a gleam of blue, a dark rain curtain sweeps across the horizon. The view becomes blurred and then the rain hits me again. No need to bring water, it's here in large quantities. Graphite and watercolour and pastel mixes with rain and sea. Packing up I stomp determinedly back - albeit at a slightly crazy angle - towards the car. Fists clenched I won’t be beaten by the weather. Off to Silwick to check out the stacks. Sheep scatter as I walk across the headland to look over the edge at the stacks. In fact there's more wave activity further out to sea here, waves breaking high over the rocks just off the shore. The wind, still pretty strong, hits me in blasts, but if I get down lower it’s a bit easier to control my progress. A bruised apricot patch opens up on the horizon in the dark rain-filled sky; the sun is starting to set. Almost immediately I open my sketch book rain and hail hit me. The page in soaked but I persevere, working white pastel and black water block into the water as it runs across the paper. I draw frantically with a large stub of graphite. Well it kinda works. By 3pm the light starts to go - time to get back to the car where meet the local crofter who’s been feeding his May lambs in the shed; they have to get used to taking food from the bucket instead of the mothers' milk - it takes a while before they are hungry enough. He's impressed I've been out there drawing. When I tell him I like bad weather he looks quizzically at me.
• Endings – 17/18 October 2017 – back to the begining
Monday 17/10/2016 8°C, light wind 2m/s, overcast, low fog. Sunrise 10:49 - Sunset 16:34 Early morning we take leave ofPyramiden. In dark grey green sea ruffled by a light wind, I watch the glimmer of dawn appear over mountain tops, the moon still hanging above us. I stand on deck watching mountains and glaciers passing, and the last time most of us will pass this way for a while. We are all subdued. A few hours later we sail into Longyearbyen and moor up. 78°13.7´N, 015°36.3´E; we’re back and it’s the end of the expedition.After the chaos of packing and disembarking, pulling luggage back up the steps of the hostel, I retire to the peace and warmth of the Miner’s Bar for a cup of hot chocolate topped with cream. So we are back in civilization; people and cars and shops, even if it looks far more insubstantial than brick-built Pyramiden. In two weeks time the sunlight will disappear and there will be darkness here for the next few months. Even now the sun doesn't clear the tops of the surrounding mountains, and the amount of daylight is less and less each day. Back outside I walk to the top of town with my kite (ever hopeful), to where the road disappears into wildness and polar bear territory. There’s a suggestion of wind so I find a relatively flat space amongst the rocks and lay out the strings, untangling them, which takes a while. Turning on my GoPro I walk back and launch it into the air; a few seconds later it falls to the ground, the wind has gone. Frustration, my verbal responses disappear into the ether; fortunately there’s no-one around. I try again but by now the strings are stuck to the permafrost ground and snag on rocks. I give up; it's really not going to happen. I think that maybe I should have gone with the helium balloon idea. Too late now. A drone would have been even easier - but where's the challenge in that? Instead I wander down town and visit the local art gallery to discover a selection of old maps of the Arctic, complete with illustrations of past activites and creatures to be found in the waters of Svalbard.An old book jacket shows the preconceptions that most people held of the region - as a bleak, dangerous, inhospitable terrain of ice and rock - the borders of the known world. -->It’s trying to snow/rain. Everyone is remarking that it is far too warm for this time of year. Where is the snow? In the night the snow comes.Tuesday October 18th Climbing high. Making our way over boulders and loose rocks, pools of ice and snow, we head up into a blanket of white. We are climbing the mountain at the far end of town. A steep gully on one side falling into a snow-covered glacier at the bottom; I glimpse a glimmer of blue ice at the edges, a monochrome landscape rising and disappearing in front of us. Strips of brown-black and white, small peaks rise out of mist, smooth white slopes and edges, and lots of snow. I dare not look down, keeping my balance more by luck than skill. Ahead Sarah, her rifle at the ready (just in case), keeps up a fast pace; we follow in single file. Sarah Gerats, our guide, and Nemo, surveying from the topReaching the cairn at the summit level with the tops of mountains, we stand surveying a world of whiteness. The air feels wonderfully pure and cold. Below us Longyearbyen is a map of textures and lines.It's as though I’m in the midst of an abstract drawing - how can I compete on paper?Summit posingLater in the dark we gather together under a street-light and take turns to read a few lines of prose/poetry. I read:‘There is hardly anything that shows the short-sightedness or capriciousness of the imagination more than traveling does. … We measure the universe by ourselves… We remember an infinity of things and place… Out there we can experience the new, even if such knowing means only to touch at nature’s vast strangeness’ (taken from Henry David Thoreau, ‘Redemptive Imagination’ – on Walking, written in mid 1850’s).Walking… thinking… drawing… erasing… overdrawing… pausing…erasing… pausing… time slipping… remembering space… silenceHere is a link to the poetry reading held in Longyearbyen, 78 degrees north, October 2016 organised by Ersi Sotiropoulos as a part of the World Poetry Movement's Global Action:https://www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue=9&v=lghwVlimvd4 In his introduction to ‘The Idea of North’, Glen Gould, a Canadian artist, writes:“Something really does happen to most people who go into the north—they become at least aware of the creative opportunity which the physical fact of the country represents and - quite often, I think - come to measure their own work and life against that rather staggering creative possibility: they become, in effect, philosophers". Postscript….. Trying to absorb and grapple with all this, and then make work has been interesting – challenging. In my studio I have the mass of drawings and paintings I made whilst traveling. Some of the things I attempted to do didn’t come off - like all those early attempts to fly in the Arctic (in their case their aim was to reach the north pole) my attempts at flying a kite with a camera failed - it was either too windy or no wind or it was raining or snowing or there were Walruses, or the strings stuck to the permafrost… Using ice with frozen watercolour pigments sort-of worked; what I produced was ephemeral and that’s okay since it was all experimental and will feed future work. --> but perhaps also partly relates to Arctic melting. The impact of the landscape, its sheer scale was pretty - to employ a word that the Americans used a lot – awesome! And it was certainly immersive. How to convey all this in a moment on a piece of paper I’m still trying to figure it out. I can still feel the frustration of trying to draw a series of peaks with the mist moving over them - to get at least something down on the paper. In my notes I wrote ‘I can’t put down what I’m seeing… it seems quite insane to be trying’. My notes are full of colour descriptions… ‘white isn’t white, white is many whites’… Work will emerge in the coming year, so watch this space…Thank you all for your support
• 16 Oct 2016 – Pryamiden and the furthest north Lenin
Sunday 16/10/2016 -2°C, 5m/s. Sunrise 10:39 - Sunset 16:45.Late Saturday night we arrive and anchor close to Pyramiden 78°39.2´N, 16°22.9´E.Emerging onto an icy deck in crisp blue morning light, the moon still hangs over a now completely calm sea. In front of us the abandoned Russian settlement of Pyramiden sits silently at the foot of the snow-capped Pyramid Mountain. Once a model coal mining town until the fall of the Soviet Union in the late 1980s, it still bears the scars of its mining days. In 1936, the Soviets acquired the rights to use the coalfields at Pyramiden and built the town to demonstrate Soviet power.Lenin's viewThe Russian government threw money at this place, even importing earth from the Ukraine so there would be grassy areas on top of the permafrost. Once there were green houses full of vegetables, hens laying eggs. A place where only the best coal miners and their families could work.It was desirable to live here - life was relaxed away from Mother Russia, people had more freedom. Any foreigner could come here without a visa, and it must of been impressive.In the 1980s more than 1,000 people lived in Pyramiden. Residents were assigned to different residential halls, which acquired their own nicknames - London for single men, Paris for the unmarried women (there was even pub on the ground floor of the women's building). Crazy House for families , so called because the children who would always play in the hallways. Gostinka (Russian for “hotel,”) was built to house short-term workers. There was a hospital, a large cafeteria - apparently so that the women didn't have to cook for their families and therefore could be useful workers (!) - a giant mosaic was made depicting the Svalbard landscape populated by heroes of Norse legends. Apparently the heated indoor pool was the best in Svalbard. All was constructed in typical Soviet block-style fashion of brick made on site with rounded edges to lessen the impact of the bitter winter wind. Somewhere there is even a grave yard for both humans and cats.Now blocks of abandoned flats where mine workers and their families once lived, are now colonised by kittiwakes. It''s difficult to imagine this waste land full of industry; I try to imagine families wandering the boardwalks on a summer evening. At top of town in front of the Culture House the northern-most bust of Lenin surveys empty streets and dilapidated buildings. We wander around the Culture house; inside is full of abandoned items - sets of old skis, a football lies in the sports court, the empty goals still in place - when was the last game? Russian books and pamphlets, old photographs of people who once lived and worked here. The world's northern-most grand piano - a "Red October" - sits on the stage in the dark and deserted auditorium. Jordi mounts the stars, sits and plays, the out-of-tune sound echoing eerily through the building. On the wall in a room upstairs is a panorama depicting the surrounding mountains. Who painted it? Rotting wooden walkways and bridges, huge mounds of scrap metal lie beside the dock juxtaposed with bright soviet monuments that reach for the sky proclaiming power. Its a pretty horrible mess but the setting surrounded by snow capped mountains, the Nordenskiöld glacier and fjord to the east, is magnificent. Waking to this everyday as you went to work - would you ever get used to it? But then the mine workers would spend their days in darkness, deep inside the mountain, to emerge into either the darkness of a polar night or blinking into the brilliant light of the summer season. Rusting swings sit in the playgroundWith the fall of the Soviet Union the money dried up, wages stopped being paid, there were shortages and standard of living fell, so families left. The town was abandonded. On March 31,1998, the last coal was extracted from the mine; seven months later, just before the ice arrived, on October 10th the last residents left. Pyramiden has now become, or they are attempting to make it, a tourist destination with a hotel staffed by a couple of Russians where visitors can enjoy staying in a Russian style room or opt for more European comforts.The Hotel - Russian style Before we leave to get back for dinner I make a quick drawing of the Pyramide mountain rubbing chalk and graphite across the page smudged with the icy water running from the mountain. Not really enough time to do much before we return to the boat. Just beyond me on the path Jordi is filming Spike dressed as a polar bear and sweeping snow. Drawing the mountain, photo courtesy of Jordi ForniesThe Pyramiden mountain, photo courtesy of Jordi ForniesLater we troop along the board walks and return in the dark to the hotel and sit in the bar drinking vodka infused with horseradish and then another with ginger (both are pretty good), watching videos of folk dancing Russians bands. I find the contrast between all this and the surrounding landscape bizarre and also depressing. Must be very weird for the few remaining caretakers who live there all year in the midst of such decay, particularly during the dark months of Polar Night. The Arctic has a complicated history of exploitation - exploitation of natural resources. Its animals have been fished and hunted to virtual extinction, it’s been mined, claimed, land stolen, people destroyed by disease, and of course now there are global warming issues – the threat of ecological destruction of the planet. When I was interviewed by the anthropologist on board we talked about the north and I found myself relating these places to the wall in the series Game of Thrones holding back the Wildling hoards of the icy north who are threatening to invade and, like Janssen’s Groke, bring winter to the rest of the world. I feel that Longyearbyen and Ny Ålesund are like walls but doing the opposite to that in the Games of Thrones - or maybe not quite the opposite - instead are trying to protect the north, to prevent the world from invading the Arctic, guarding, drawing attention to its fragility – holding us back from inflicting more human exploitation and destruction.
• Leaving Isfjorden and man over board
Saturday 15/10/2016 -3°C, 10m/s; Sunrise 10:29 – Sunset 16:55 There’s quite a swell at the entrance of Isfjorden as we take our early morning leave and continue south. We help to raise the sails and it’s certainly quieter and smoother than last night. Dark until mid-morning and much colder, ice lies over the deck. The light changes fast. We travel in grey black sea, bruised pink clouds hang over snow-covered mountains, the usual mist drifting over peaks. We pass all those glaciers again, this time in reverse order. Sometimes it just doesn’t look real. Snow sweeps in covering the deck; we slip and slide across it and more sweeping ensues; an endless task. I retreat to a sheltered corner to draw in my small sketchbook - using snow to smudge the charcoal, chalk and graphite into the paper. Afternoon. Chaos erupts; siren sounding, we stumble out into swirling snow. ‘Man overboard’ has been called; confusion. Then we’re told that Oscar’s machine to test for plastics in seawater that has been trailing behind the boat has come loose, disappearing into the sea, along with a life belt. Oscar’s machine for collecting plastics - before it disappearedThe next few hours are spent with the Captain shouting angrily at us to look out to sea and find it, to treat this as a drill for a lost person (although given the sea conditions by then they would not have survived more than a few minutes). Tensions rise, it’s very cold, visibility is poor, there’s a general feeling that this is all pretty unnecessary, our captain has over-reacted, but captains rule their ships and demand obedience it seems. Our teams - starboard and port - take 20 minute turns to line the perimeters of the boat and peer into sea and mist and swirling snow, then retreat to the saloon to warm up. Miraculously, after two hours - it might be longer since by now I’ve lost sense of time - the life belt is finally recovered, but the machine has vanished to become part of the detritus in the Arctic sea and perhaps to wash up somewhere years later as with the discovery of Andrée’s discarded ballasts thrown into the air from his balloon long after he had disappeared into the void. By now it’s too dark to draw; I think we are all pretty fed up.Increasing wind brings a greater sea swell - not good for the seasick sufferers. But it’s exciting and I sit out on deck and eat dinner while watching the boat pitching, waves rising and falling, sometimes breaching the side as the boat leans. Around me stand the suffering, hanging on, looking pale and wan, an occasional figure dashing for the side. With a slight change of direction and sails back up the pitching lessens and the sea and people calm. Later with a full moon shining over the sea there is music dancing on deck. I take to my bunk, falling asleep to the thump of revelers above my head, the moon bright through my porthole. We sail through the night.
• Fjortende Julibukta: wind-blown boat-rocked rain-spattered
--> Friday 14/10/2016 Fjortende Julibukta 4°C, 7m/s. Sunrise 10:20 – Sunset 17:04.Morning; grey gloomy light from an overcast sky. Grey green blue black sea a slightly swelling disturbed surface. Small chunks of glacier ice litter the sea. It rains all morning, so any thoughts of kite flying are abandoned (again) despite wind whipping across the water. We land and on shore I find a wooden structure - a make shift table; laying out my sketchbook and drawing materials and I have an outdoor studio. JK working on Fjortende Julibukta (photo by Annie)I draw and at the same time am desperately trying to hold everything down, wind and rain sweep the exposed beach, black ink is pushed and pulled across the page, spattering and running, obscuring images - impossible to do anything else but let it flow. I photograph the images as they disappear. My charcoal drawings fair little better. Disappearing drawingArtist's Arctic tableEverything is so wet. Time to move on and go get dry and warm. I walk back along the shore and watch a sea full of glacial ice slowly heaving, it's as though it's breathing. The pieces of ice have air, bits of rock and earth, plants embedded in them. How old are these particles? How far have they travelled? They're so beautiful - the blue colour of air trapped deep inside with orange brown earth and rock, even pinks, yellow green fragments of plants ripple through themBack to the boat in the gloom. I don’t think it stops raining all day, making for misty blue haze over the landscape. Undaunted I go out on deck and draw, and remain to work here all afternoon as others go back on land for a very wet trek around the glacier. I rush to make a quick charcoal drawing of the Fjortende glacier in front of the boat as the mountains disappearing into mist and rain, then, using the frozen pigments I created a few days ago, I smash chunks of coloured ice and throw them over the paper, allowing them to begin to melt and run across the sheets. The images are ephemeral again, ice dissolving with rain. Perhaps this is fitting given global warming and receding ice. The most interesting bit is probably photographing the changes – wind-blown boat-rocked rain-spattered. Later the sea is pale green grey with strips of yellow where rock meets water. With wind increasing, we remain in the bay with anchors down – it’s too strong outside to leave at the moment. Across the other side the lights come and go - a fishing vessel has joined our shelter. Midnight, from my tiny porthole the sea looks milky white, the boat rocking; think it’s going to be yet another night of little sleep.
• Arctic Air – an absolute difficult beauty
This work represents my initial responses to the experience of travelling in the High Arctic. It includes drawings, watercolour drawings, photographs and a film & sound piece of the sound of ancient air being released from glacial ice made in collaboration with my son Tom Poole-Kerr.These are on show at the RWA, Bristol until August 20th 2017. For those of you who can't make this here are some of images of the work - photographs, drawings and paintings - in the exhibition The work represents initial responses to a thunder grey and pale blue world, encounters with icebergs and glaciers, watching drifting mist hanging in dark snow-strewn mountains, hearing glaciers calving, and sailing through a sea of luminous ice. Trapped Air - series of photographs taken as I travelled through Svalbard. Printed on Titanium coated linen rag archive quality paper by Dave Hammond http://www.burntcandle.co.uk/Thick ice radiates an ethereal blue, hovering between turquoise with hints of cobalt. Glacial ice becomes so dense over years of compression, squeezing, forcing out tiny air pockets between crystals. Extremely dense ice absorbs a small amount of red light, leaving a bluish tint in reflected light. Blue is a sign of old age - I crouch down and look at the base of the glacier, here lie remnants from the last Ice Age. I think about the hundreds, even thousands of years locked away inside, suspended in tiny air bubbles, about how many years snow has fallen, compressing this enormous thick ice mass that is slowly flowing down the mountain valley, the sheer weight pulling with it the debris of earth and rock with it, sliding relentlessly to the sea. Walking around ice lying on the shore, I hear the popping of air bubbles releasing ancient air into the atmosphere; it’s as though it’s breathing out. In my notes I write ‘I can’t put down what I’m seeing… it seems quite insane to be trying’. Ymerbukta,Svalbard 105x146cm Ink, graphite, gesso, watercolour Fuglefjorden,Svalbard 101 x 75cm Ink, graphite, gesso, watercolour mixed media on canvas (two canvases) 150cm x 270cm
• Arctic Post – Thurs 13th Oct Fuglefjorden – how darkness and light are bound together
--> Thursday 13.10.2016 Fuglefjorden - how darkness and light are bound together-2°C, 3m/s. Sunrise 10:11 sunset 17.15. 9-10 m/sA pre-breakfast Zodiac trip has been planned; it’s still dark when I arrive on deck. Can’t see any stars yet, a luminous green sea and dark land mass is silhouetted against the sky. The group of early-morning risers clamber into the Zodiacs, and travel out into a sea of ice, leaning out to push large chunks of looming icebergs out of the way. The sea and ice heave slowly – almost as though breathing, ice turning and moving away. We get close to the glacier, a massive wall that looms above us. Still dark and snowing slightly, falling flakes glisten in the flash from my camera. No-one speaks, it feels magical, gently traveling around the bay in a sea of ice as dawn begins to break, apricot in a clear sky. I sometimes can’t quite believe where I am. The ship comes into view in front of us in a blue world surrounded by chunks of ice.We are traveling in a vacuum, a small band of international artists on a boat high above the Arctic Circle - an improbable place with its own contested history of struggles and exploitations, of politics and power, darkness and light, myths and realities - and it’s difficult to think of what might be going on at home in the UK and elsewhere in the world. Since we left Longyearbyen most of us have had no contact with the outside, no phone, internet or radio. We occasionally talk politics (more often we talk about food and next meal or the next place we will arrive at); the Americans artists are all fed up about the looming election and the possibility of a Trump triumph, some talking about leaving the country to go to live in Canada and I can’t say I would want to stay in a ‘trumped up’ America; another artist is struggling with visas to leave one country and go to another. There are a few domestic concerns for some, but as one of the guides remarks to me, being in a cold distant place helps to get away from heightened emotions … it becomes a form of protection - ‘The sky seems closer to the land. I feel such a small dot in the landscape that I feel so insignificant that it makes problems disappear. Nothing ever happens that is important when I am away in the north’. Someone else when I ask her about her sense of north says that she feels that there is no space or time for the superficial here - it cannot survive - no time for drama. ‘North is to me the place that makes you go on a pretty straight path to the essence of it all/everything. It can be hard (conditions) and has extremes, taking you quickly to the essentials of living and surviving, and in that of life - actions, relations, words, intentions, thoughts, meanings’. There is the old ambiguity about going up there to find or lose oneself, but it is perhaps more that the far north, and particularly the High Arctic, intensifies experiences rather than providing answers or transformations. Canadian artist Glen Gould made a radio documentary programme of sounds and words and silences called the Idea of the North. For Gould the idea of north was as a metaphor for the sheer physical profundity of the northern land, ‘an escape from the limitations of civilization’ .. as something ‘other’, separate, away from society; a state of mind within which lay creative possibilities. He concludes that this vast irreducible territory is a strength, a constant reminder of the need for unity, a source of saving humanity rather than seeing it simply as a source of wealth for natural resources. Author Peter Davidson in his book The Idea of North (2004) refers to its ‘absolute difficult beauty’. Trying to grapple with all this and make work is interesting – and challenging. Sometimes the landscape seems to just draw itself – it looks like drawings rather than reality - out of this world – and I wonder what I can add to it. Davidson writes: ‘apersistent myth of the north in our own time is that the exploration of the Arctic is morally pure, connected with concepts such as rigorous self-discipline and self-knowledge, allowing artists to cling to the popular belief that northern regions are untouched, pristine. It is both reality and imagination, both rich and dangerous, a northern haven, but also a harsh dark place’. It becomes a clear bright morning. Breakfast over there is a landing on Svidjotholmen (or ‘Spikeholmen’ after Spike one of the artists traveling with us), I’m really torn between going to the island and staying on the deck to work; in some ways I should make every opportunity to go on land. In the end I stay and work on deck. I watch silhouetted figures moving around on the island, dwarfed in front of the massive shape of Svidjotbreen, and hear the noise of a large glacial calving, which I’m later told causes a big wave to hit the island. I’m sure I’m going to regret not going… but will I gain anymore from drawing on land rather than looking at the land from the sea?Midday we sail south, the wind has dictated our direction. So this is as far north as we are going to get, I feel disappointed. Cloud hovering and descending, mountains disappear reappear disappear reaching up into the sky and I’m not sure where mountains stops and sky begins anymore. A thunder grey and pale blue world, pale turquoise blue-green sea, dark ripples traveling fast across its surface. We pass chunks of ice, one looks like a swan with wings outstretched, then a large intensely turquoise piece – it doesn’t look real. Snowings again, four seagulls flying just above the sea, a dark line against white. A dusting of new snow on the mountains, dark jagged teeth above smooth snow covering. We pass glacier after glacier; I wonder what early travelers made of all this, a place of horror or wonder? In the book ‘Arctic Dreams’ author Barry Lopez remarks:'...It is as though the land slowly works its way into the man... The land becomes large, alive like an animal; it humbles him in a way he cannot pronounce. It is not that the land is simply beautiful but that it is powerful. Its power derives from the tension between its obvious beauty and its capacity to take life. Its power flows into the mind from a realization of how darkness and light are bound together within it..”. Mid afternoon, snowing so heavily that I can’t see anything; we sail on in our own white world and take turns to sweep the deck. Late afternoon the snow stops, the sky clears, the sun setting pink-orange reflected in light green pink-tinged sea, dark clouds. I stay on deck desperately trying to paint as the wind picks up - 9-10 m/s; it’s icy and my paint begins to look a bit like those slush puppy drinks kids buy. There’s still a very cold wind blowing. Most of the mountains remain shrouded in grey mist, sea turns dark blue black, a Guillimot flies by.Evening, we anchor at Fjortende Julibukta and drink mulled wine on deck in the dark.
• Arctic log: Wednesday 12th October, Smeerenburg – Walrus, wonder and whaling (with added bits)
Wednesday 12.10.2016 Smeerenburg 79°43,7´N, 011°00.5´E, 2°C8m/s, wind picking up. Sunrise 10:02 – Sunset 17:23. I wake early and peer out of my porthole; still dark, there is now 22 minutes less daylight. I can just make out coastline and mountains. It’s raining; depressing, it shouldn’t be. What is happening to our climate? We move a short distance closer to the island of Smeerenburg, and there’s the usual scramble for equipment and to board the zodiac for the trip from ship to shore. The sky clear slightly as we leave the ship, light breaks through the clouds.Landing on the beach I gaze back to the far shore and dark mountains on the far side of the bay; it’s just wondrous, as though a stage has been set for me. In the gloom mist is gathering, hovering, moving slowly, and then it seems to be flowing upwards over the dark mountain peaks that poke through. Above an ethereal light is coming from somewhere out of the dark clouds so that the glaciers gleam, turning turquoise as they reach the sea. It looks so ridiculously magical, so unbelievably beautiful I feel I’m in a fairy tale world. Turning up the beach we find the walruses, lots of them, lying lazily in large companionable heaps, lolling, shifting, shuffling, rolling, an occasional flipper waving in the air, long white tusks appearing as a head raises to survey us, an occasional snort grunt and fart - they smell. A bit like huge slugs as wrinkled brown and pink skin rippling they haul their colossal bodies along the pale yellow sand. A young walrus swims with its parents, playfully sinking, surfacing, splashing, pausing to peer at this strange group who cluster on the beach and move as one edging closer to the Walrus mound, our cameras capturing their every move. (A point of information: the Walrus’s scientific name is Odobenus rosmarus which in Latin means tooth-walking seahorse).My feet are wet and I’m cold, and there are only so many photographs to be taken of a walrus; seeing them in the flesh is what counts, and they are pretty amazing to watch, but even this has its limits. Eventually we are able to tour around the remains of Smeerenburg - ´Blubbertown’ - an old 17th Century Dutch whaling station. First occupied by the Dutch in 1614, in its heyday (1630s) Smeerenburg was made up of 16–17 buildings. A board commemorates the site with a map showing the location of buildings and ovens. Having be warned to tread carefully and keep off the tundra (again!) we are allowed to wander carefully around the old ovens. Blackened lumps mark the remains of blubber ovens - rock fused with sand, gravel, and whale oil boiled together to make “blubber cement”, and where cooking vessels to render oil from the fat once stood. Remains of blubber ovensFlensing. Facsimile of a woodcut in the Cosmograhie Universelle ofThevet Folio, Paris 1574Blubber cement - It has a texture resembling asphalt. During this time there were as many as 200 men working ashore, 'flensing' whales (stripping the blubber), the blubber was then cut into small pieces, put into casks and boiled until it became oil. Scattered on the beach a mass of wood lies abandoned, amongst them the bleached white bones left from whales killed and dismembered on the beach; I ponder how old they must be. Surfaces scoured by wind and snow, lichen is beginning to take over, the bones look almost sculptural - shades of Barbara Hepworth and Henry Moore. A barren windswept island, swept by wild sea and storm, it must have been a pretty awful place to be amid the stench of death and boiling oil. On the ground lie patches of bright green and orange mosses, presumably fertilized by the ashes of slaughtered whales. By the second half of the century Smeerenberg was mostly abandoned since they had exhausted the supply of whales. The whale population never recovered. There are almost none left in the waters around Svalbard. Somewhere out here are the graves of over 100 men who lost their lives during the 17th and 18th century… but then I think of all the whales they killed. In the book The Solitude of Thomas Cave by Georgina Harding I find this quote:Extract from The Solitude of Thomas Cave, by Georgina HardingI look around me and imagine the horror of it all, but the surrounding mountains are a complete contrast to the slaughter and chaos that this beach must have endured. In the same book I find a quote echoing what I'm now seeing Across on the shore I can see the usual photographers at work. Despite its dark history it's a place to capture. I make a few quick drawings looking up at the misty blue blur of dark mountains and snow; the sky has that end-of-day pink.Standing awaiting the zodiacs a small Arctic fox appears trotting down to the beach. I watch from the Zodiac as it suddenly jumps into the mass of Walrus and disappears. In the afternoon I stay on board while others go on a trek up to the top of a glacier; I’m so tempted to join them but my clothes and boots are still wet from the morning, instead I spend some time trying to make colours that I see in the landscape. Grinding the water-colour pigments together that I’ve brought with me, mixing in sea water collected by lowering a bucket over the side of the boat and hoisting it up. This is a project I planned before I left the UK, and I still haven’t actually done anything about until now, so I need to get on with it while I have the opportunity and the deck is pretty much deserted. I spend half the time staring at the sea and glacier, trying to decide what exactly are those colours out there. Once I've mixed a batch I ask for them to be put in the freezer to be used at a later date… -->The Antigua moves off in cloud. We travel slowly through a pale green/grey icy sea, snow covering, ice scattering, sea slowly swelling as if breathing. Ellis O’Connor joins me on deck and we’re both drawing again as land and ice slips by. Marvelling at it allCan’t stop now - white that isn’t white, white that is many whites, soft black, dissolving merging melting dripping. I gather snow and push it into charcoal and pastel across the paper. Cold fingers. Visibility disappearing in freezing ice and snow that whips across the deck. These are some of the most perfect moments.Evening, we anchor in Fuglefjorden, 79°45,3´N, 011°31.5´E. Out on deck in the dark I listen to ice scrapping along the side of the boat, to ice cracking releasing its age-old air.Addendum: In January 2017 I travel to Amsterdam and wandering around the Rijksmuseum come across a painting of Smeerenberg The Whale-Oil Refinery near the Village of Smeerenburg (1639) by Cornelis de Man. The Whale-Oil Refinery near the Village of Smeerenburg (1639) by Cornelis de Man, Rijksmuseum, AmsterdamClearly from the look of it De Man didn’t actually ever visit the whaling station, painting it from the comfort of his studio at home, and apparently basing it on a Danish painting of a Svalbard whaling station and other images. I also discover in a nearby case beautiful knitted hats that were removed from excavated graves on Smeerenberg. I suppose due to the freezing conditions so far north, much of the clothing was very well-preserved. As the Rijksmuseum caption notes the men were bundled up so tightly against the cold that they would have only “recognized by the colours and patterns of their caps". As in Shetland fishermen wore distinctive jumper patterns knitted for each family members, I suppose here too, men working in Smeerenburg when pulled from the sea would also be identifiable by the pattern and colour of each hat. The original dyed rich colours of the thick caps have long since faded which have taken up the uniform brown colour of the soil they were buried in, but their original patterns with strips and varying shapes are still visible. They are wonderful pieces to pause by and wonder about who wore them and who knitted them.
• Shetland Watercolours – April 2017
In the last few days I have started a new series of water colour drawings.All based of recent walks in West Burrafirth along Brindister Voe and up on the hills above. This is a place to wander and never see anyone else, a place inhabited at this time o...
• All in a Shetland day
Off the ferry and into the mist as we drive to our house. Can't see the hills or the voe. Rain hits the windows; a little sun appears and then more rain... Later the hills brighten and the sun shines so out we go. A cold wind - icy blasts sweeping ...
• Arctic Blog: Tuesday 11th Oct; 7 glaciers; nature mort et vivant
Tuesday 11.10.2016 Ny Ålesund 78°55.6´N, 011°56.4´2°C 12m/s wind changing SW - SE - NE, Sunrise 09:53 – Sunset 17:32 Early morning, sails set, we leave Ny Ålesund under cover of darkness and travel north, blown by southerly winds.Choppy pale green sea. Rain in the air, overcast skyGiven our northerly location it’s not particularly cold. This is the area from which Spizbergan (Svalbard) gets its name (Spitsbergen originated with Barentsz, who described the "pointed mountains" he saw on the west coast), a mass of peaked mountain ranges rising out of the sea counteracted by the downward sweep of glaciers; and the glaciers just keep on coming... en route in the course of the day we will pass seven - Forstenbreen, Andrebreen, Tredjebreen, Fjerdebreen, Femtebreen, Sjettebreen, Sjubreen It’s a day for seeing nature – mort et vivant. A dead sperm whale lies in the shallows caught on the rocks, waves slowly rocking the body; as we get closer the smell is terrible. Pale glaucous gulls wheel over the corpse, perching on top to feast; even from where we are we can see the red marks of the flesh revealed under stripped skin. Who knows what happened – death by natural causes hopefully. pic courtesy of Jennifer Crouch see: http://www.jennifercrouch.com/Curled asleep on a nearby ridge is a Polar fox, clearly sated from a fortuitous meal of whale meat. Raising its head to check us out a few times, then, having been disturbed, begins to pick its way between rocks down to the sea.We continue sailing north, passing more glaciers; I’m drawing and drawing.24x41cmSmall sketchbook 11x21cmSmall sketchbook 11x21cm Then in the afternoon our first (and only) polar bear is sighted wandering slowly along the shoreline between rocks. A rush for binoculars and long lenses; even from this far vantage point watching through binoculars you can see the thick coat and powerful large limbs and feet that allow them to cover miles on foot or swim for hours in freezing sea. It raises its head looking out at us, unconcerned by our presence, and continues to pick its way along the shoreline. It’s a thrill and a privilege to see a polar bear in its own environment, even from this far away. Cameras click. Innuit refer to polar bears as nanook. Not territorial, but adult polar bears generally live solitary lives, so we are not likely to see another around here. Described as marine mammals, being strong swimmers they spend much of their time on Arctic sea ice flows (there’s been sightings of them in open Arctic waters as far as 200 miles from land). They have an incredible sense of smell, can sniff out prey from up to 16km away, so this one is bound to know about the meal of whale meat up ahead. The biggest threat to polar bears is climate change; rising global temperatures means that sea ice they use as a platform to hunt seals, is melting earlier and forming later each year, leaving polar bears less time to hunt for food. The forecast is that there will be a decline in numbers. See:https://www.carbonbrief.org/polar-bears-and-climate-change-what-does-the-science-sayWe travel all day and I spend most of the time on deck watching mountains and glaciers pass and I keep on drawing, although the periodic rainfall doesn’t help much. It's getting colder the further north we go - which is a good sign; the rain stops, a glimmer of sun appearing on the snow slopes.Small sketchbook 11x21cmSmall sketchbook 11x21cmSmall sketchbook 11x21cmSmall sketchbook 11x21cm24x41cm I'm aware of the noise of a bird singing; a small bird has arrived on the boat, sits on the boom above me; then, flying down onto the deck, it perches for a moment on one of the Zodiacs and is gone. Identified later as a Sidensvans, which I think translates from its Norwegian name as a Bohemian waxwing, it’s very rare for this bird to be seen so far North, perhaps blown off course; perhaps more indication of global warming.Sidensvans We peer into the deep recesses of the Magdelenefjorden as we pass by; Gullybreen lies on one side and at the far end is Wagonwaybreen. The boat turns into the narrow gap between the mainland and an island called Danskøya and sails into Bjorntfjorden. Dark rock towering above us on the right then flattening out on our left as we skirt round the island into Smeerenburgfjorden, and early evening we anchor at Virgohamna, 79°43,3´N, 010°54,5´E, northwest Svalbard. It's been quite a journey. Then I’m informed that this small island is Dane Island and I suddenly realise that this is where Salomon August Andrée with his two companions - a photographer and engineer - launched his ill-fated hot air balloon The Eagle in 1897.Dane Island A small barren rocky beach close to the base of the mountains, all that now remains of the adventure is a few parts of the wooden structure built to house the balloon; too many souvenir hunters have been here. Photographs taken at the time show the construction of hydrogen balloon launch site on Dane Island and preparations for launch. Here, on July 11th 1897 at 2:30 in the afternoon, the flight order was given and the hydrogen balloon lifted off from Danes Island, carrying August Salomon Andrée, Knut Fraenkel, and Nils Strindberg. The balloon rose hopefully into the air trailing its long guide ropes across the surfaced of the sea, heading north against a grey sky. "We can not fail" said AndréeThen it vanished from view. This was the last time the three Swedish aeronauts were seen alive. Soon after take off the balloon was battered by wind and weighed down by fog frozen into ice came down onto an ice flow. Yet it had managed to float hundreds of miles north before landing or perhaps more accurately, crashingAfter this they camped on ice floes and dragging their equipment trying to reach land.Food seems to have been relatively plentiful over the three months the three men survived after their balloon came down on the ice. A photo taken by Andrée, shows Fraenkel (left) and Strindberg standing over a polar bear shot during the trek south. They needed their strength: for 3 months each had to drag a sledge piled with gear and supplies, weighing about 300 pounds. Given what I have seen and read of the Arctic terrain this is an amazing achievement in itself.This was not enough to keep them alive. The remains of the balloon, its contents and three skeletons were discovered thirty-three years later on White Island, now called Kvitøya and the remotest island of the Svalbard archipelago at 80°N/32°30’E. Photographic glass plates (see the images above), their equipment, tent, food, and diaries, were all discovered at this site, charts their desperate journey from July 14th when the balloon went down and their flight failed Extract from the Private Journal of Nils Strindberg:- 8 January, 1898 -'If only our critics could see us know! The skeptics who would cast doubt in the hearts of our benefactors and compatriots, the cowards and equivocators who would claim that our company lacked the endurance and spiritual equipment to conquer to north! Where are they now?Unified in purpose and undeterred by the dangers lurking in the ice, we continue our journey into the wilderness. We march in step and persevere, building our shelters, sharing our food, surviving against these momentous odds. Our balloon and the bitter ironies of plight are but a distant memory now, but the dream lives on. We will fight the forces of Nature, and we will prevail.We are in good shape. Our stores, the ones that survive, are well stocked with provisions. Our guns fire without hesitation. And while our clothes have suffered the sharp and unrelenting abuse of the elements, our hearts and bodies remain fit and full of fire. We shall not want. We were blind and bitterly cold but now we see, as real explorers do, walking the verge of the abyss. Tomorrow we start with renewed strength. Home is near'.The last entry in Nils Strindberg's diary, on October 6, was 'Resignation'. Strindberg was the first to go - seized by what the other two men decided was a heart attack. He died within a few hours. Two weeks later Knut Fraenkel died in his sleeping bag, and Salomon August Andrée died propped against a rock. No-one is clear what it was they died of.The last recognizable date written in Andrée's diary is October 17th1897; the words are indecipherable. . Now back home I'm currently reading Andrée's diary. For more info see http://www.aviation-history.com/airmen/andree.htm (Photographs from Grenna Museum, Andrée expedition Polarcenter/Swedish Society for Anthropology & Geography) I feel very frustrated; I wished I’d known that we would be travelling to Dane Island; it would have been a perfect place to pay homage to the ‘First Attempt of a Flight to the North Pole’, and to launch a small helium balloon or even fly a kite. But it doesn’t seem possible to allow me to land on the island, let alone try to launch my kite, and anyway there’s no wind, the sea in the bay is completely calm. Light fading, we take to the Zodiacs for a trip around the bay; a large group of harbour seals loll on rocks watching us watching them; not particularly interesting, But I’ve seen lots of seals before and I’m not really in the mood to enjoy them. Leaning over I look down into the clear watery depths beneath the Zodiac, seaweed sways slowly back and forth over rocks, mist hovers on the mountains, the light is fast disappearing and I imagine The Eagle slowly rising and heading out into the ice and sea. A small trappers cabin Torsbu sits on the island Æøya; it would be nice to be there, just to be quiet for a time, away from the constant hum of the boat, away from everyone (although somehow writer and poet Jess Arndt manages to persuade the leader to allow her to spend the night there protected by the guides with rifles). By early evening darkness has descended upon us. I retire to my bunk. I've had enough of the day. Post script: When we visit the Spitsbergen Airship Museum in Longyearbyen on another occasion, I find a small fragment of the balloon and stare at it for a long time, imagining.
• Monday 10th October – Blomstrandbreen trek – "Get off the tundra!"
--> Monday 10.10.2016 Blomstrandbreen 79°00,2´N, 012°13.1´E Cloudy and overcast, a dark but beautiful morning. 2°C, 2m/s. Sunrise 09:45 – Sunset 17:41A wet foggy start to the day, still dark while we eat breakfast; even as we assemble on deck and climb into the Zodiacs it’s only just about getting light. We travel towards shore in the gloom of early morning, a pale green sea, mist clinging low to the mountains. No-one speaks, the bay is full of luminous glacial ice, pale turquoise blue, white, laced brown, large, small, flat, jagged, float silently passed us, jostling for space. Travelling by Zodiacs to shore is more hazardous today as we slowly push our way through the ice. I look back to where the Antigua sits surrounded by a gently swelling turquoise blue ice sea; some of those pieces are pretty big.We set off trekking up the mountain at a brisk pace; our aim is to reach the head of Blomstrandbreen. A tricky climb, the tundra crumbling and rocky, a bit like climbing up scree. Stones strewn across the ground - pure white, jet black, marble-like patterns, some like ancient bits of wood. Lying amongst them is a small piece of reindeer antler, soft grey with darker markings. Then something white moves up ahead. We all freeze. Sara looks worried, her hand travels to the rifle; this is not a good sign. We’re too far up to retreat, nowhere to shelter. We stand exchanging looks, whispering, then relief, it’s a pale reindeer, its arctic coat beginning to show. I wonder what we would have done if it had been a polar bear - maybe better not to think. We continue upwards and pass a pair of harmless white Rock Tarmigan wandering amongst rocks and low foliage; they don’t seem bothered by us. Rock Tarmigan (archive photos)Climbing through mist it feels as though we are suspended, cocooned somewhere between sky and sea. As we reach the top it clears and there’s a spectacular view back to the shore. A thin line of a bright burnt orange winds through the deep gorge below us; up here I can’t hear the stream. I peer over the drop; before me a stone strewn path dragged by the ice and then the glacier sweeps vertically down to the sea edge where blue ice pushes up together, growing high into fat rounded peaks, bunching on shoreline waiting their turn to calf and fall, break into pieces and float out to sea. Pockets of mist hover and drift about us. Much of the ground is bare rocks, small pockets of snow lying on slopes, but not as much as there should be.On the edgeGet off the Tundra Zlatan!Looking back down the way we’ve climbed I can see far across the bay to yet another gleaming glacier. Cloud and mist drifts, sun on ice. Below us lies the Antigua, a tiny speck in a vast space. We pause, standing together where once has been glacier, a silent group listening to the land and sea and sky. I close my eyes. Now I hear the rush of water below us, then sounds of the glacier calving, of air moving, air that feels so clear, then silence. I feel so remote from the world and yet right in the midst of it. Overwhelmingly beautiful, I think we have a collective sublime moment. Then we are herded back down at breakneck speed, slipping and sliding on the scree, as we're late for lunch (never mind being sublime when the captain is pacing the deck).Cloud descends again as we arrive back on the Antigua, hanging low of the mountain we just climbed, intensifying the blues in the ice, dark dramatic peaks rising behind the glacier. Leaving Bloomstrandbreen - a flash of blue skyAfternoon, we head northwards, and I hang about on the deck and draw fast. sketch book - drawing on the move - leaving Bloomstrandbreensketch book - drawing on the move- passing glaciersketch book - drawing on the move- mountains and glaciersWe reach Ny Ålesund late afternoon. Once a coal-mining settlement, now an international centre for arctic scientific research and environmental monitoring, with a shifting population of scientists/researchers from 10 countries. http://kingsbay.no/ Our arrival increases the population by 78%. Ny ÅlesundSitting against a backdrop of mountains, it feels somewhere between entering a sci-fi movie set and an episode of The Prisoner. Strangely-shaped antenna point into the sky monitoring the northern lights, white domes sit eerily in the landscape listening to the stratosphere, neat wooden buildings painted in pale colours, board walks, notices forbidding you to walk on the tundra - geoscientists are studying permafrost soils and changes in glacier systems and we mustn’t touch the ground. There are devises to measure how higher levels of UV radiation are affecting sea life in the fjords, to record how organisms are responding to increasing ocean acidification. Occasionally a few people appear busily walking from one building to another, clipboards in hand, a cyclist passes by. Receiving strict instructions to observe all the signs and not walk off the path, we walk in file, careful where we put our feet, and arrive at the Amundsen/Nobile mast. A rather bleak place, I stare up at the metal structure. It’s all that now remains of the launch station for airship Norge, along with a plaque that hails the event as a 'glorious achievement'.In reality the expedition seems less heroic and more of a feat of survival judging by the accounts of the trip. Launched May 11th 1925 the aim was to observe uncharted sea between the Pole and Alaska. Amundsen, the famous Norwegian expedition leader and navigator, and Umberto Nobile, Italian airship designer and pilot, apparently didn’t hit it off, relations becoming strained, understandable perhaps in such freezing, cramped and noisy conditions (there were sixteen of them inside the ship). It all became even worse when, a day later, they passed the North Pole and in true patriotic style dropped their flags and Amundsen saw the Italian flag was larger than the Norwegian and American flags. Size clearly matters. Amundsen later contemptuously described the trip as "a circus wagon in the sky".Airship Norge hovers over Ny-Ålesund before heading for the North Pole. (Image: Norwegian Polar Institute Photo Library)Photo taken in the Ny Ålesund museumNy Ålesund’s museum tells the history of mining up until early 1960’s when, on 5 November 1962, there was an explosion in the Ester mine. The entire work shift, consisting of 21 miners, lost their lives. 10 of the bodies were brought up to the shocked town, 11 were never found. The mine became their grave and was closed. The shop seems to sell mainly tourist stuff – fridge magnets, socks, sweets (maybe scientists have sweet teeth), the usual array of postcards, although there’s a couple of nice images of old Ny Ålesund amongst them. I buy a couple and write one to send home.It’s already dark when we return to the boat; 20 minutes less daylight each day now. In a couple of weeks there will be no daylight for several months as Polar night sets in. Late evening the sky is clear and Northern lights flicker. I'm finally sleeping on the top bunk and have a porthole through which to see the world. I breath a little easier.
• Arctic Blog Sunday 9th October, Blomstrandhalvøya: flying frustrations
--> Sunday 9/10/2016 0°C, 5m/s. Blomstrandhalvøya 78°59,6 ́N 012°04.6 ́E. Sunrise 09:37 – Sunset 17:49 satellite image of our locationThe light across the far mountains is beautiful when I go up on deck before breakfast, pale pink early morning sun glinting off the blue glacier that stretches to the horizon, a dusting of snow on the black mountains. Fresh cold clear air to breathe. The quietness is palpable. I love it first thing when there are few people about and I can have the deck pretty much to myself.Breakfast over we take to the zodiacs and land on an island close to Glacier Blomstrandbreen. 10 years ago, this glacier was still connected to Blomstrandhalvøya, and 7 years ago the small island on which we now stand was still covered by glacier. Maps still show it as being part of the peninsula and glacier. I know that no continents are static –seismic/tectonic activity see to that, but such movements mostly take eons. Yet the far north seems to shift around all the time, visibly, every time the ice grows and melts – you can see it moving.We are at the beginning of the Polar Night season; officially it’s winter, so there should be snow. Yet while there’s been a few snowfalls – the most so far being on the day we left Longyearbyen – but since then its mostly been rain, washing snow from all but the tops of the mountains, creating fog and mist that flows over the glaciers and across the mountains. For me this is what I can draw – it’s atmospheric and dramatic – but it really shouldn’t be like this in the high Arctic at this time of year. Walking up the rock-strewn ground I sit close to the glacier and unpack my drawing materials, time to work. Sun breaks through cloud, gleaming pale on distant peaks. Blueness of glacial ice is pretty difficult to capture; I look at dark brown/black rocks flecked with snow, pale green sea, red/brown stones, white and blue ice lying heaped on the shore, pale marble-like lines tracing through smoothed flat black rocks. Then back up at the mountains surrounding me, their hard jagged peaks soften by the mist. There’s too much to take in, how can I put all of that on one small white piece of paper? I start drawing, screwing my eyes up and trying to fix the images as my hand moves across the page, I am drawing the mountains surrounding the glacier with black ink, bits of charcoal, and water-colour mixed with the sea, lines rubbed and smudged and drawn again; then I see something else, draw again, am always dissatisfied.Then I notice there’s wind; not much but maybe a chance to launch my kite. Unpacking it I carefully spread out and straighten the four lines across the rock and ice, which takes some time, then I attach the camera and turn it on. I manage to get the kite up into the air for a few seconds and then it’s down again. Again I sort out the lines and lay them ready. Arms out-stretched I stand waiting; Sarah offers to help; a nod from me and she throws the kite up and I pull hard and walk backwards. The kite rises, teeters and moves through the air for what seems like a moment - maybe two or three - lines taut then slack then it falls. I try again but it’s not to be, there's just not enough wind to lift both kite and camera. Probably the kite alone might fly but then I need film of the event - of the ground viewed from high above me, of lines drawn across he landscape.Disheartened, defeated, I give up and return to the constancy of my drawing. A white Arctic fox is running on the beach. After lunch, anchor up, and we are passing slowly through more uncharted waters, the zodiac is out measuring depth in front of Antigua as it moves cautiously into the bay to finally moor in front of Blomstrandbreen, 79°00,2´N, 012°13.1´E. The sight of these glaciers still takes my breath away; that turquoise colour, the ruggedness of the surface, the sheer vastness of it all. Finally we can go on shore. Always a struggle to remember to grab everything I need, remember to sign out and then load everything into the boat. We cruise in the Zodiacs around icebergs floating serenely in the sea, fantastical shapes, shiny translucence, pale turquoise, rippling surfaces. Hugh chunks of ice balance on the edge of the glacier wait ready to join the others in the sea. the sea looks green-blue, a thin film of ice forming on its surface.On shore I wander across to the edge of the glacier; it folds onto the ground like vast rolls of material. Pale smooth marble-like surface streaked with sediments.Then I’m back to trying to draw that same piece of mountain, jagged edges rising into sky softened now by mist hovering and drifting, its dark face speckled with snow. Below a flat black rock face runs down on the beach towards me. I still just can’t get the surface of my drawing to work. It’s tricky squatting on frozen ground; I stand and bang freezing dirty hands together. Tama Baldwin appears in front of me and starts to photograph me as I'm drawing (looking at the images now I notice that I seem to have forgotten to remove my life jacket - but then you can never be too careful).(To see more of Tama's Arctic photos: https://www.tamabaldwin.com/)Photo courtesy of Tama BaldwinPhoto courtesy of Tama BaldwinPhoto courtesy of Tama BaldwinShe goes on her way and I continue. I'm quite pleased with one of the drawings - manage not to overwork it. The sky is changing, dark streaks merge with apricot and pale blues. A wind – distraction – maybe… is it enough? I stop trying to draw, grab my kite in its bag and make my way up to a higher and flatter area. Check the direction of the wind and once again slowly and carefully unroll the kite, weighting the bottom edge with small stones prised from frozen ground, then walking backwards lay out the strings checking for twists. This all takes some time. Returning to the kite I turn on the camera, then back to grasp the line handles, stand and wait, turning my face to try to feel the wind. I tug sharply, the kite rises then falls. The wind is inconstant; still not strong enough to hold kite and camera up in the air. I give up, wind up the strings, and return to the shore feeling totally frustrated. Staring back up at that mountain again I attempt two more paintings. Across the bay, across the sea, the light becomes translucent - blues, greys, apricot, pinks – snow, mountains, mist flowing. Ice seems to be forming on the water as I watch. I simply can’t put all this down on paper.
• Arctic Blog Saturday Oct 8th – drill and party night
Saturday 8/10/2016. Kongsijorden Bay 79°00'0.00" N 11°39'59.99" 3°C, 10m/sec; Sunrise 09:29 – Sunset 17:58 The sun is rising slowly above a blue/grey sea; daylight is noticeably later now than when we set off. Pink light reflects off the mountains, sedimentary layers lie horizontal, then swoop diagonally and fold together, forced upwards by some huge seismic activity which took place probably more than 410-440 million years ago The wind drops to gusts of 5 knots, ‘a moderate sea’; a big swell as we head out to sea. Sails raised the ship stabilizes, much to the relief of seasick passengers, and finally we leave Ymerbukta. Sailing out of Isfjorden we head north, bright morning sun shining on the Alkhornet Mountain. The colours are dazzling; such a contrast to yesterday. In celebration lunch is taken on deck, and the Captain gives an impromptu lecture on navigation with setsquare, compass and GPS. (Pic) We learn that being so far north plotting positions needs to take into account compass variations due to boat drift and the North Pole’s magnetic pull. Apparently if you are near either the north or the south pole, a compass becomes useless. It points towards the magnetic pole, which is not the true geographic pole. Those two poles could be quite far apart and in different directions. Magnetic North Pole is not the same as "true north;" it is several hundreds miles further south of geographic North Pole. Earth's iron core and movement within its outer part generates a Magnetic field, and the magnetic North and South Poles are where the field is vertical. A true-color image taken on May 5, 2000, by an instrument aboard NASA's Terra spacecraft, over the North Pole, with sea ice shown in white and open water in black. Credit: Image by Allen Lunsford, NASA GSFC Direct Readout Laboratory; Data courtesy Tromso receiving station, Svalbard, NorwayThe difference between magnetic and geographic pole is called declination. Since its discovery in 1831, the magnetic North Pole has been around Canada’s Ellesmere Island, about 500 miles (800 kilometers) from the geographic North Pole. But the magnetic field drifts, causing the angle of declination to change over time. Currently, magnetic North Pole moves about 25 miles each year in a northwest direction - at a faster rate than it has moved since tracking began in the 1830s. Eventually, magnetic North and South Poles will move to the point that they “flip” and compasses will then point south.The last “flip” occurred 730,000 years ago. (info from http://www.livescience.com/41955-north-pole.html)How to tell how fast we're going.. The Knotmaster! I walk the deck staring out at the passing mountains and sea and draw rapidly. graphite (in mini sketchbook)graphite, charcoal and pastel (mini-sketchbook)watercolour and pastel with seawaterNorthern fulmars are following us; a flock of what I think are guillemots fly past skimming low over the waves. The ship’s siren sounds - a call to assemble on deck for drill. A scrabble to don life jackets and warm clothing; we line up on port and starboard sides according to cabin numbers. The crew struggle into bright orange flotation suits that don’t look at all comfortable, but then I guess that would be the least of their worries if it came to it. (pics) The captain strides amongst us checking, adjusting jackets DrillToday is spent travelling, the sea growing increasingly calm. We pass mountain ranges covered in snow on one side of the boat, bare red/brown sandstone rock face on the other. I take my paper and paint and charcoal to the back deck where it's less windy (and populated) and sit and draw for a while. Ink and charcoal mixed with seawaterink, watercolour and seawaterThen lying on a bench I fall asleep lulled by the ships movements, to be woken by the shout that two Pilot whales have been spotted. Our surroundings grow increasingly dramatic. Sun setting, orange tinged horizon in a darkening sky with feather clouds, we arrive in a bay hemmed in by snow-covered mountains. Anchor dropped, we are at Blomstrandhamna, 78°59,6´N, 012°04.6´E, a bay in Haakon VII Land at Spitsbergen, Svalbard, the northern side of Kongsfjorden, and north of Blomstrandhalvøyamoored Before us is the shadowy glacier Blomstrandbreen under a now clear star-filled sky. Finally, silence, interrupted by occasional sounds of glacial carving. No wind, but some promised for tomorrow – maybe a kite flying day? Small invitations have been slipped under our cabin doors. Tonight is fancy-dress party night. We are all invited to attend. I dress as the glacier queen and float into the saloon. Fancy dress party night - Pic by Tama BaldwinDancing manically, music floats (or perhaps blasts) out into the darkness of the polar night. It seems quite insane, frivolous even, given the overwhelming beauty of our surroundings, but even in the Arctic one has to party! The Captain appears, dressed in a woman’s bra and grass skirt. Hmm… I sidle off to bed.
• Arctic Blog: Friday 7th October – ‘Værfast’ (Ymerbukta)
--> Friday 7/10/2016 2°C, Ymerbukta. 20m/s; Sunrise 09:21 – Sunset 18:06. Sea state – moderate; wind speed 7-8, gusting wind, speeds of up to 20 knots predicted. Grey-green sea, small waves break the surface.A hint of spindrift. Mist hovering, mountain shapes disappearing re-appearing. We are moving yet going nowhere. Last night the boat was moved closer to the entrance of the fjord, but despite two anchors we've been pulled half way back to where we originally moored on the northern side of the fjord. In the morning we reach a speed of 0.5 knots despite two anchors and 270m of chain out.The wind howls and gusts; a lull before it starts again. This isn’t a full blown-storm, force 7 is not so much - a moderate gale - but for this sailboat it is and we can't venture out into open sea, can’t leave the safety of the fjord, we are ´værfast´ so we stay put. We anchor. Some of the hardier amongst us jump into the sea from the boat with ropes tied around their waists. Not for me, therein lies madness!A small break in an otherwise grey overcast featureless sky. I make out dark shapes of mountains, no detail. It clears a little; snow on peaks, a few tiny buildings - trapper huts - on the shoreline. Waves racing towards land, white foam breaking, swirling, twisting. Colours change. Close to land there’s a strip of brown sea, on the far side of the boat the sea is a pale blue. The glacier reappears in front of us. Later, an apricot glow in the sky over the glacier, the sea looks much greener. On deck I make four paintings, well they make themselves as paint is blown across the paper by wind, washed by rain. ink, charcoal and pastel washed with rainpastel and charcoal and rain waterink, pastel and raincharcoal and pastel with rain waterEarly evening the sea becomes brown; a heavy sky, cloud and mist moving rapidly over the mountains. Every so often a loud gust of wind sweeps across the sea sending large waves racing shore-wards. The air is full of sound – anything that’s loose is moving, banging, rattling. Click on link below to see short film I've posted on Vimeo:https://vimeo.com/201751970?utm_source=email&utm_medium=vimeo-cliptranscode-201504&utm_campaign=29220In fading light I am drawing composites records of our movements. Very small drawings in a cut-down sketchbook. I start to worry I might run out of paper.Early evening we travel back to the southern shore, and anchor. A few hours later it’s clear that a single anchor is not holding us, a 2nd anchor goes down; we are still stuck in the fjord Maybe we will escape tomorrow. The northern lights put in a brief appearance.
• Arctic Blog: Wednesday 5th October 2016 Tunabreen
--> Wednesday 5/10/2016 Tunabreen 4°C, 2m/s Sunrise 09:05 – Sunset 18:23The Antigua remains anchored in front of the glacier. The day is overcast and raining which makes for dramatic cloud, drifting mist hanging in the mountains, the sea brown against a mass of luminous chunks of blue and white ice floating on its surface. The Belugas reappear, five white backs breaking the surface in unison. Last night I was sure we were moving since the boat was swaying so much. All that thudding and scrapping and shifting can now be attributed to glacial calving creating swell that rocked the boat. Most people go on the shore, a few remain inside writing or working on their computers. I remain on deck and try to paint – not very successfully, but later I lean over the side of the boat and hoist up seawater in a bucket and add it to pastels and charcoal, and the drawings start to work. Tunabreen - glacier from the Antigua charcoal and graphite on paperusing charcoal and sea waterusing ink, pastels and sea waterApart from the crew working or loitering on deck for a quick smoke I’m pretty much on my own. It’s peaceful; every so often there is a glacial calving, and we all stop and look towards the sound. I can never get to photograph one of these happening - you just never know when and where... but the sound is always startling and disturbing. According to Wikipedia glacier carving is a form of ice ablation or ice disruption and caused by the glacier expanding, which causes the sudden release and breaking away of a mass of ice from a glacier. The ice that breaks away can be classified as an iceberg, but may also be a growler, bergy bit, or a crevasse wall breakaway. I guess this depends on where it happens. Everyone piles back onto the boat – lunchtime. Later Ellis joins me on deck and we work side by side on the only table on deck, and we both marvel at the landscape and feel overwhelmed and wonder what on earth to do with it all. Ellis O'Connor and Janette Kerr - drawing on deck (pic by Spike)charcoal and chalk and a bit of seawaterwatercolour, chalks and seawaterwatercolour, chalks and seawaterWind increasing, the boat swings and shifting, the view changing so my drawings become combinations of different vistas. I draw fast - even more so now we are moving to another location. Early afternoon - anchor up, there are strong southerly winds. Three hours later we arrive at Gipsvika, 78°26,2´N, 016°25,9´E. The snow has gone, the mountains dark, softened by hanging mist.On shore at Gipshukodden, our rifle-toting lookouts form their usual triangle around us marking the area we are allowed to inhabit. As we arrived in front of the glacier three reindeer grazing on the hill make a quick exit. On the beach I walk to the highest place I’m allowed to go, sit and make drawings. Cold fingers.Around me others are occupied in their own tasks; a few draw, the poet and writers slowly pacing and pausing; sound artists donning headphones listen, photographers peer through cameras, tripods spread on ice and even in the sea, others just sit and look. We gather on the shore in the gloom, awaiting the arrival of the zodiacs to transport us back to the Antigua. Photos It definitely feels colder – but probably because I’ve been sitting for so long on the ground drawing. A few hardy folk stay to skinny-dip; I’m tempted but I’m not that mad! They don’t stay in very long. It’s been a busy day, anchor up, we sail out of Isfjorden (which apparently is the largest fjord system in Svalbard), and travel north through the night. Night view - just before we raise anchorOut on deck I can see the far shore and lights of Longyearbyen again. Strange to see them; I feel such a long way from civilization, yet it’s only been two days. I love being out there in the dark. A sky full of stars; the northern lights are out again (not as strong as the previous time).
• Arctic Blog – Oct 2nd/3rd/4th: Embarkation and my first sight of a glacier
It has taken me a while to get my diary notes written up and to sort out the hundreds of photographs I have taken while traveling. Most of my drawings and water-colours are now up on the wall in my studio (well those not in sketch books) and I'm struggling with how to make images from it all. A wall of Arctic sketchesIt's so different to painting seas. Since returning home I've been a bit busy ...had a solo show at Cadogan Contemporary in London, driven up Shetland to give a paper and exhibit a few of the drawings made in Svalbard at the Relate North symposium focusing on the Arctic, all of which fortuitously took place at the Museum in Lerwick (and at which I met some lovely people from Finland), I've flown back to Norway for a few days; then there was Christmas and New Year so off back to Shetland just in time for the wildness of Storm Barbara and Storm Connor to hit us, and I've just been to Amsterdam.... In between all this I've been transcribing all my Arctic trip notes on my laptop, as well as writing an application for another project, and trying to get to the studio and make some work. So please forgive the lateness of my Arctic Blog.Just to recap.......Prior to my expedition to Svalbard I spent a year researching the Arctic and concepts relating to ‘northerness’….. Book cover found in a Svalbard art gallery An inherent spirituality associated with the north can be traced back to the Greeks, whose paradise-like ultima Thule was said to exist at the back of the north wind. In medieval geographies ultima Thule represents any distant place located beyond the ‘borders of the known world - a bleak, inhospitable terrain of ice, rock, and volcanoes…. between physical and metaphysical realms’. In Tove Janssons’ Moomintroll books the Groke represents the negative force of northern winter – an avator of the frost giants of old Northern mythology, the enemy of the sociable summer happiness. Reading accounts of 18th and 19thC expeditions, attempts to reach the Pole - on foot, with dogs and sledges, on skis, by airship, by hot air balloon, by plane - failed expeditions to find the northwest passage with ships stuck in ice for years, slowly crushed and then abandoned, I was struck by how Arctic history is a legacy of desires - to discover riches, a stage for personal quests and heroism, the need for national pride. Descriptions of hardships suffered, deaths, attitudes towards the Inuit, the constant need to name and claim places, were both fascinating and depressing. Fridtjof Nansen, who successfully traversed the north-west passage in his polar ship Fram, wrote in 1911 “nowhere else have we won our way more slowly, nowhere else has every new step caused so much trouble, so many privations, and sufferings, and certainly nowhere have the resulting discoveries promised fewer material advantages”. There is an old ambiguity about going to such places to find or lose oneself, but perhaps it is more that the north is a place that intensifies experiences rather than providing answers or transformations. We have an idea of the far north as a limitless, an almost incomprehensible metaphysical space - of north as moving “always out of reach,” leading “always to a further north, to an elsewhere.” So back to Longyearbyen.I'm told that there was never an indigenous population in Svalbard. Before Mr Longyearbyen established it as a coalmining town in early 20thC, this was a place where trappers arrived and left bearing furs, and whalers came to plunder and ultimately exhaust its waters. . Mist drifting over the tops of the dark mountains that close in around the town At the top of town the road stops and a track leads out and into a wilderness of snow and receding mountains – and where we are strictly instructed not to go unless accompanied by an armed guide – there are bears out there. But it looks so tempting…Going the other way, the road follows the sea to the airport, passing the soon-to-be closed modern coalmine with heaps of prime coal still lying beside the road, and up above the town to the Svalbard Global Seed Vault. This wedge of steel cuts deep into the mountain, into the permafrost so temperature is constant. Inside is the world's largest collection of crop diversity seeds; a fail-safe bank built to stand natural or man-made disasters. If you want to take a look inside follow this link: https://www.croptrust.org/our-work/svalbard-global-seed-vault/interactive-visit/ Standing on one bleak shore with the late afternoon light already starting to fade, geese and sea gulls fly before me as I walk along the edge of the sea gazing across at the mass of monochromatic snow-covered mountain range ringing the town. There’s a film shoot session in progress, a band hovers around a campfire. The backdrop is pretty stupendous; let’s hope their music is. Monday 3/10/2016 78°13.7´N, 015°36.3´E Sunrise 08:50 - Sunset 18:39; O°C, wind 12m/secEmbarkation day Looking out of the hostel in the morning and the world looks wonderful, dark muddy land transformed by a covering of powdery snow.I wander up the road and watch snow making its way across the mountains until the view is obliterated. Time to return to the hostel to catch the bus to the harbour and find the Antigua.Tumbling from the bus dragging our luggage through the snow, we gather in front of the Antigua – home for the next two weeks. embarkationIt’s all ropes and sails and masts. Crossing the gangplank snow falls faster and faster, obliterating the far shore. Leaving suitcases and bags piled on deck disappearing beneath a covering of snow we investigate our cabins. As I anticipated there is not much room but I am still shocked at the lack of space – two bunks and one tiny porthole – no room to swing a cat, let alone store wet paintings, and it’s stiflingly hot. Hey-ho, most of my time will be spent on deck; maybe I could sleep there as well. The ship sets out to sea, and most of us are out on deck following what we can still see of the coastline through the swirling snow. View from boat as we leave LongyearbyenThe plan is to sail to Ymerbukta. It stops snowing during the afternoon and the light is spectacular against the backdrop of jagged mountains - white against white, traces of luminous blue now pink slowly fading as we head out into a sea that is becoming increasingly rough. Glad I’ve taken my seasick pills. Sea birds follow swooping between wave and sky. Standing on deck has its rewards as a group of white-beaked dolphins join us, coursing through the waves, dipping and diving in front of the boat. Not usual visitors to this area, they’re an indication of warming seas since they must only be here because there’s food about. A less than enthusiastic response by some greets the sound of the ship’s dinner bell, the heavy sea having already taken its toll. A couple of bowls of creamy coconut pudding seems to calm stomachs, and We help put the sails up and once sails are raised it feels less turbulent. Later, out on deck, I stand in the dark watching white sails buffeting in the wind. The pole star is almost directly above us. I try to remember where stars are when I’m back home; there’s the Plough and Orion’s Belt, but then I’m lost in an increasingly clearing star-filled sky. We are rewarded by a display of northern lights, long tendrils of white light snake downwards, a green glow pulsating on the horizon. All this and only our first night at sea. I wander around the deck pressing my ear against the ropes. They make interesting sounds, vibrating against the tension of wind-filled sails, a bit like listening to dub beat. Mid evening, the boat makes a 180° turn, changing course and sailing north -east. It’s been a rough start. Later we anchor at Bjonahamna 78°23,6'N, 016°51,6'E. Tuesday 4/10/2016 Bjonahamna -2°C, 7m/s wind, Sunrise 08:58 – Sunset 18:31I stand out on the deck watching the morning light slowly brightening and playing across the mountains - it's a pretty overwhelming landscape. A morning landing - our first stop (and the day I should have taken the kite). We stand on deck waiting, life jackets on, a briefing on how to get into and behave in a Zodiac. I can’t feel any wind, the sea’s completely calm, so leaving my kite on deck and clutching snow-boots, rucksack full of paper, charcoal, pastels, camera slung round my neck (have I remembered everything?) I climb into a Zodiac and we head for shore. Landing on a beach, a big bank of white pristine snow deep enough to sink into up to my thighs confronts us. I clamber onto a flat plateau and walk around slightly dazed; shining sun, blue sky, silence, white clad mountains with ridges of dark rock surround us. The group fans out, I feel in shock, scale and distance confound the eye, completely dwarfed by the land. Walls of rock towers above me rising up into the sky like castle battlements. Close up it is as though I'm looking at an abstract painting. Wall of rock and snowWhere to start? I walk to the end of the spit of land, sit in the snow and draw, concentrating on dark areas of the mountains. The light is strange, sun hanging low in the sky - almost as though it's late afternoon and not morning. I'm having difficulty knowing what time it is since not only are we now an hour forward of UK time, we are also another hour forward - 'boat time' - so we can make use of as much daylight as there is, and there will be less each day.snow ridge between land and seaThen I suddenly realise that there’s a wind – maybe strong enough to fly the kite. And this large flat area would be perfect… But the kite’s on the boat and frustratingly there’s now not time to get taken back to collect it. I reason there will be other occasions, so back to drawing. I rub snow into the paper, blending pastel and charcoal; still wet when I walk back along the shoreline and clamber into the Zodiac carefully balancing bits of paper. charcoal, chalk and snow on paperLater in my notes I write ‘ ‘Still can’t work out how to draw this landscape..’ . What I am thinking? It’s only the first day! Early afternoon, anchor up, we sail from Bjonahamna arriving at Tunabreen 78°23,1'N, 017°23,7'E and there’s my first glacier, a vast mass of turquoise ice against burnt umber rocks, luminous pale blue sea reflecting a bright blue sky and dark mountains. The Antigua moves slowly into the bay, nosing its way through through a sea of floating glacial ice; this is unchartered water - where glacier used to be. The second mate climbs out along the bow to the front, leaning out to radio back to Bridge our progress as we approach the shore. Ahead in shallow water a small pod of white Beluga whales silently surfaces and dips, gently blowing water as they pass. We stand quietly watching their progress. We stop directly in front of the glacier. It is so blue I can't quite believe it, so massive. Tunabreen A low rumbling seems to come from all around me, then a deep loud cracking sound and suddenly hugh lumps of ice detach themselves and fall, sliding vertically almost in slow motion, crashing into the sea; the glacier is calving. It is a terrible yet fascinating sight. Silence, a strange calm, and then the sea responds, wave after wave roll onto the shore, the boat rocks. This is an event that is to be repeated over and over during our stay.We are going to land on a newly revealed island – now named ´Jægerøya´ - land once connected to glacier Tunabreen before it retreated. I know that no continents are static - seismic/tectonic activity see to that - but these movements mostly take eons. Yet the far north moves around all the time, visibly, every time the ice grows and melts – you can see it moving - which means it exists beyond accurate cartography. Travelling to shore is delayed while the glacier calves again and we wait for the water to calm. Finally we are on land, rock and ice beneath our feet; so close to the glacier that I can’t speak. A vast cliff of ice rising above me, terrifying and magnificent. I walk, breathing in cold clear air, sound muted, compressed. We move slowly trying to get our bearings, small smudges against a vast monochromatic backdrop It’s weird finally being so close to a glacier; I have imagined them but had no real idea what they actually looked like and what it would feel like to be standing in front of one. It’s emotional, and when, inexplicably since there shouldn’t be a signal out here, my mobile phone rings and it’s my partner, I cry and try to describe to him what I am looking at; the vast cliff of ice rising up in front of me, not clean nor smooth and white as I’d imagined, like a sort of ice rink to slip and slide and ride on. Instead the surface is rugged, pitted with peaks and troughs, marbled with veins of browns and blues running through the ice. Thick ice radiates an ethereal blue color difficult to describe, hovering between turquoises with hints of cobalt. Blue because glacial ice becomes so dense over years of compression, squeezing, forcing out the tiny air pockets between crystals. Extremely dense ice absorbs a small amount of red light, leaving a bluish tint in reflected light. So blue is a sign of old age - ice formed thousands of years ago. I crouch down and look at the bottom of the ice, remnants from the last Ice Age, and I think about the hundreds, even thousands of years locked away inside, suspended in tiny air bubbles. I think about how many years that snow has fallen, compressing into this enormous thick ice mass that is slowly flowing down the mountain valley, the sheer weight pulling with it the debris of earth and rock with it, sliding relentlessly to the sea. Walking around ice lying on the shore, I hear the popping of air bubbles releasing age-old air into the atmosphere; it’s as though it’s breathing out. Peering into clear white ice, wonderful patterns of masses of tiny air bubbles lie trapped inside. frozen airEventually I sit on the ground and try to recreate colours I see, mixing ice and snow with watercolour. So much to look at perhaps it’s still too soon to even try paint. Blue and brown watercolour, bits of ice float together moving across the page. Too ephemeral to carry back to the boat, I photograph the images allowing paint to merge, flow across the paper and disappear. ice and watercoloursice, watercolours and earthdissolving Usually alone in my studio or out on a coastline drawing and painting, it feels strange working with other artists around me but also companionable; everyone’s involved in doing their own thing, alone in their internal worlds and at the same time there’s an unacknowledged shared intention, we’re all responding to the same place. Later we trek around the glacier walking close to the vast mass of ice glistening around us, whites, turquoises, streaked dark black and brown like marble. A strange landscape. The Antigua awaiting our return Then it's back to the shore to await the zodiacs and return to the ship
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