They speak secret languages and tell stories in whispers we can almost catch. They go about their days in another world. Their experience is rooted in the moment at hand, the seasons, and the wind. They are pure and they live free.
From various exhibitions.
Seasons Circle and Paths are Worn
Seasons circle and paths are worn.
Through extremity you wander.
You cannot still the time, cannot escape danger.
Come together, cross, meld as one.
Beating heart drum of the North,
you go when it is safe to move.
Once you bore young on icy shores,
flowed inward from the sea--
waves of wild on this fragile tundra plain.
To line distant coffers they break the land,
their pipelines gleaming in the arctic sun.
They forge webs of industrial sprawl,
their progress, the blackest gold, unleashed.
A promise of tomorrow.
But what is won and what is lost
and when will we know it’s too late?
On wind-swept thermokarst the herd pauses.
All eyes watch as they dip their heads to forage.
Migration is always temporary if you have somewhere to go. Click on images for full view.