Recently I have been thinking about coastlines, and more generally, about the boundaries of our own knowledge of the world. From land, gazing at the surface of the water, what we see is space and light, much the same as humans saw hundreds of years past. Standing on that coastline we have no way of knowing from sight and touch how much we do not know.
The oceans are in constant flux and in a very short time change has accelerated. More noise, more plastic, and higher temperatures challenge the life within, but our knowledge of these changes comes to us primarily through science rather than our physical senses. Science then, gives us glimpses beyond the verge. (The verge, in medieval times was a 12 mile radius around the royal court.) Being on “the edge of another world” gives us a sense of place, a known position on a cognitive map. A boundary, real or imaginary, implies comfort in limits, as well as the need to transgress the limits. While we find comfort in standing solidly on land, or at the center of our known world, understanding and insight usually happen at the edge.
Our culture compels us to divvy up the land into comprehensible chunks; a golf course, a yard, a gated community. These studies and drawings are all about the territories we create for ourselves, and an attempt to recognize the immensity of what lies beyond.
