As I wandered rural southern France and traversed the American West this summer, the recurring theme of water rushed at me from every angle. I witnessed the power of nature to command its movements and the precarious preciousness of its existence. A hot early summer conjured melting snowpacks and imagery of destructive flooding of the Yellowstone River, and then just weeks later floating peacefully on its recreational currents created dichotomous experiences. I renewed vows of my enduring relationship with the ocean, diving into its frigid waves to escape the summer temperatures with a promise to return often and go deeper. Gooey marsh bog, slippery stream pebbles, and slimy decomposing seaweed writhed between my toes and later were washed clean on their wet shores. Water connected me to forever strangers via news of devastating floods across the globe, and sometimes within a few hours of my egress. I passed by lakes and reservoirs with unprecedented low levels, where underwater canyons, sunken boats, and dead bodies have reemerged from the depths of history; rivers and dams will be wreaking havoc on irrigation and electricity supplies shortly. Contemplating drought-driven household habit change and implication in this desperately depressing mess humans have created from the heat-wave safety of a swimming pool, I realized how connected we are to each other by an aqueous solution.
"Dry Me a River," dead juniper branches, river rock & sand, metal bucket, retired garden hose, found objects, dimension varies, August 2022
"Dry Me a River,"dead juniper branches, river rock & sand, metal bucket, retired garden hose, found objects, dimension varies, August 2022