Tidal

Surveillance is the story of this work. As I travel and explore the outer fringe of the planet. I study the earth by watching, one inch at a time.

I think back to how I really began my investigation of the ocean, and I have to credit Fiji for being the tipping point. I was midway through a year in the South Pacific. I was behind schedule due to my extension of time in the Cook Islands. From my onetime home base in Chicago, I had sent myself book parcels wrapped on brown paper. Scrolled across them said my name, poste restante, Main Post Office, Suva, Fiji. I remember the warnings that ensued and the "you will never see them again" comments that followed. I had my doubts only when my stay in the Cooks was doubled due to my exhibition in Rarotonga, and the exciting Cook island mini media blitz that followed and kept me from Fiji. The chance of my parcel sitting there waiting for me was greatly diminished because of it, and I knew it.

I walked into the stately, cavernous space that is the Suva Post Office. Daylight streamed in and the broad shouldered Fijians directed me to a stairway and the parcel room that may or may not hold my package. I remember the heat, and the overwhelming immediacy of a new country. The Fijian language sounded abrupt at first, but it would became familiar in the upcoming months. I remember the fan spinning about and the stern faces that would turn so quickly into glowing smiles. It took a while for the man to reappear with my package. It also took a bit for me to identify it. It came slowly across the sea, and it showed. I figured that I probably was in a similar state myself. I mean I myself had a severe burn scar from an exuberant Tahitian motorcycle trip down a volcano. The other leg had wounds from the infamous razor coral of the South Seas. My package was equally battered, but also still functional.

I could tell by the smiles all around that there was a bit of relief in finding this dusty torn parcel that had arrived an amazing three months early. I held it, smelled the paper, and rocked it in my arms with joy. It was home wrapped in paper. Inside it was a paperback copy of Moby Dick, which my forward thinking self had decided that it would be the right time to tie into the work. What proved to be much more important was the other, smaller volume that was in the package. Jules Verne's 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. That was the clincher. That book was the glue for my entire Fijian exploration, and well beyond. I knew that I has planned on getting my scuba diving certification, and I wanted a book that was all about the strangeness of the sea.

So it was with that book that I began to investigate the sea intimately. I would read it in my thatched hut with the kerosene lantern every night, then wake at dawn to be plunged into the unknown sea. The weather was rather dodgy for learning to dive. The sea was often rough and the rains came frequently, my dive manual was in German just because it was all that was left. I looked at the pictures. I also found that I had to have so many lead weights to even get me to sink, nearly double of what I should have for my weight. I was working myself into a frenzy with thoughts of giant squid and other unexplainable creatures that I might come face to face with. Then I would cling to the side of a dive boat and plunk myself in to face any number of things. All in all it was a dizzying experience.

The Euro travellers acted like it was as basic as a trip to the market. Poisonous sea snakes swirled past your masked face, while giant outer reef sharks loomed menacingly all in front of the rather bored gazes of my dive comrades. I on the other hand ended up face to face with many of a Verne-esque creature, and I felt that it was anything but boring. I at times feared that I would spit out my regulator with excitement. I was cranked on adrenaline while others appeared to be lethargically watching the discovery channel. I was giddy about the significance of our siteings when we gathered around the communal table for lunch. The Fijians though, were most intrigued as they questioned why one would put themselves in front of a shark. I did not have much of an answer. I was not just cranked on adrenaline, but most importantly Verne. The sea was relatively unknown, and to myself and Jules, that meant adventure and all that came with it.

The Verne frenzy perhaps hit its climax soon after I returned from swimming across the strait from Waya island to Kandavu. It was the channel of great depth, where the sharks tour about and feed. I was on my way back when I caught site of something sitting on the rocks on Waya. I knew the timing was critical as I contemplated my return swim back to the island. If I grew too tired I could appear wobbly and approachable as bait to the waiting sharks. I also could get swept out as the tides changed. But whatever sat on that rock would not be there in the morning, that I also knew. So back I went, only to discover a perfect Nautilus shell sitting there on the rock. I stuffed it into the side of my bikini like a bond girl's gun and swam back across the channel of sharks.

I returned breathless to my hut and another tourist was worried about me. He held his hand behind his back, as did I. We each pulled out the exact same gift for each other. Two perfect Nautilus shells were held, one in each of our palms. That would secure that the next eight years would be spent together, before utilizing the very nature of the Nautilus, the freedom to leave its shell home and live an independent life. It was that night that upon turning the page in 20,000 Leagues under the Sea that Mr. Verne revealed the name of Captain Nemo's submarine, The Nautilus.

I was too enthralled and caught in adventure and love to realize the doom of my situation. 20,000 Leagues isn't exactly a romance after all. The warning signs were all around, including not so subtle references to Homer's Odyssey, with the lead character's name in each book translating to "nobody." This forthcoming life chapter would lead me to also question if my own name was fast becoming "nobody" for the sake of the beloved. Even the shared name of the accommodation and the stretch of reef where I lived and learned to dive were doomed to be titled after the French explorer Dumont D'Urville's wrecked ship The Astrolabe. Which is also alluded to in Verne's book. Yet I did not realize the significance of it all, or maybe just ignored it. Now, nearly ten years later, and after an accidental visit to the ficticious departure port of the Nautilus submarine in Long Island, I came to realize that this book, and the Homer epic are the foundation of my later sea videos.

Each of the above characters had to face a great monster, be it cyclops or squid or other kinds, both internal and external. My own monster facing would show in my art, from a giant octopus like dress that hovered above your head, ready to catch you in its net, to seeded suits of armour. Military camoflauge soon became a cloak, and new aquadic animal species appeared in my studio tanks, mysterious and well armoured. The work on one had does not seem linear, but when viewed through this lens, it shows some connectivity. So it is from this point that I have begun to examine my Verne inspired decade of life that still has nearly two years to go.

I end this post with thaughts back to the French woman who I met at the green and white colonial hotel that sat on the hill above Suva. I sat with her over morning tea and toast explaining to her my love of this book, my love of life and my new found love for a stranger. After a short sparatic summary of some of the above story, she turned to me and simply smiled. She was a professor and her graduate thesis was on the books of Jules Verne.