Stories

I am creating a series of artworks and writing related to communicating different areas of science in unique and simple ways. I hope to show people how to use art as a tool to learn about themselves and the complexities of their world.

I have been working on these ideas since I began doing research as a psychology and art student, and wanted to see science have more of a place in pop culture. I’ve been digging into many subjects like health, climate change, research, behavior, bias, evolution, ecology, and history. This has been a great opportunity to channel my curiosity into a project that hopefully can help other people realize that art can help people engage with topics that may seem beyond them.

I am always interested in working with people, and hearing their experiences as I develop these stories and works. I am currently focusing on 13 short narratives set in a world impacted by runaway climate change, I have been borrowing from the personal stories of people around me and my own life growing up off the grid and being from a family of artists.

Rubble

Less traffic out here. Quiet evenings and I might be walking in circles. I see a line of rusty water dwindle into a sieve before I can drink. A small beetle scuttles into a crevasse as it follows passageways eating the salt off the rubble of an old observatory. I can’t identify the species but I observe a gold-plated back, The eyes appear to be the same material. Long lines like prison bars cover his wings. sparkling green. It is a solitary creature or at least has been made to be that way.

The Shallows

Here we stare out at the subsurface flats, and think we see distant hills. Scattered clouds form in bursts of unflowing wind cooking in the hot summer sun. The waves are tumultuous, and strange shadows move like disappearing pheasants into bramble. The lonely guard measures the changes in depth and turbidity since yesterday. Watching as velocity fluctuates and pitches the instruments eagerly. The shadows don’t seem to be leaving.

Familiar coasts. and unusual reflection patterns, the image blips.

The Bramble

On a cliff. Dead trees lean and provide some shade, the caves directly below provide more. The valley awaits drying fast in the midday sun. Out there, leaves begin to crisp and steam, and a thick fog of smoke wisps settle in. Two surveyors prepare their descent, fret over air samples, and seek out the nearest crevasse. The suits are about ready to be shed, and rest is much needed, no data today other than the route.

A recording, documents a place in time, the image stabilizes and solidifies.

Below the City

Here, rust particles, from the old foundation being eaten into by spiraling vines, settle to the surface of the streambed, and are displaced by the technician, drilling into the clay and rock. Something scuttles downstream and ripples pulse through otherwise stagnate water. The day is heating up.

This image appears out of an off white background and is studied intently.

Mom’s House

Early morning chores give way to afternoon bliss. The fireplace is pumping and the neighborhood animals are running amuck. We are late! Again! Time to swing the door shut, and lug your gear out, even the guards are ready for a siesta, but we gotta move! Election is coming up, and ideas are made to be shared. “Get that old donkey back in the office!” I call to Jesse to print out flyers, and he starts his gizmoed up n’ rickety ol press. The brick walls and dirt roads remind me just where I am.

The Entrance

“Halt. You have a little spot on your face. Why do you have that! Please stay put. I hear alarms going off now, let me check my manual….oh dear. I’ll be back one second.”

The officer shakes his head and shakily opens the metal door behind him. Disappearing for several seconds. He reappears smiling.

“Ahem, welcome! I would advise caution. Sorry about that little kerfuffle. Have a wonderful day, and enjoy the view!”

His voice lingers and the metal doors open in both the image and the room.

The Overpass

High mountains and thin air. The sky starts lighting up as evening begins. Dramatic swings in temperature push down trees and kick up dirt with hard gusts of wind from above. The pass is closed for now. And the city at the horizon is locking down. The trio of onlookers see signals from smaller stations nearby, radio communication is about to go out. Their maps are recalibrating true north, and their location is narrowing, they must make careful steps.

This image turns into air, filling the room

A Proliferation of Flowers

Nothing for miles. A long highway, eventually, turns into dirt. The cicadas chirp, breaking the silence in a spell-bounding registry. The lone collector skips up and down, and in circles performing the same dance he saw on television as a child. Far from home, and the most vivid colors light up his vision.

Melting Ice Shelves

A long walk has burned holes in the shoes of a line of tired troops. The sun’s glow is leaving and the ice slopes lose their transparency. The air on these ice sheets is intoxicating, people begin to wander from the crowd, convinced they are seeing their futures, or families, or food. The envoy is late to meet them. A rumbling below the ice breaks the spell of dreams and the small crowd begins taking formations.

The image turns dark and melts away, spilling thick liquid on the floor.

 

Sergeant Singh’s Orders

Night has fallen. The clouds have rolled in and the crew gets to work servicing equipment. The caravan has stopped in a large rock outcropping. Tomorrow will be a hard day, lots of grass stalks to clear and the tower is not near. The laughter in the camp is at a minimum, and conversation seems hard. The injured sergeant scans the flat rolling plains and squints concerned at a deep blue pool reflecting something indistinguishable, “What’s over the hill brats? Check it out and report back to me.”

A Sunken Altar

An object of worship. the last sprigs of water in the red sands. The site has seemingly shifted, a large depression where there once was a mound. The gold metal fountain seems to be smoldering. Two collectors arrive wily and tired, after a collection gone awry, a forgotten chalice, and a heated argument. Now they must go back home.

Based on recorded eyewitness accounts this image was assembled. Self report surveys supplemented visual generation.

 

The Caves

A whistling howl lets through plooms of steam, from pockets in the rock wall. The collectors return after a long journey with worn backs and fading painkillers. Automatic feelings give the meddling urges to run, and the offering they carry feels insufficient.

They check their clothes before entering, afraid of the scent they track with them.

 

The King’s Window

On the upper floor, behind locked doors and resting his bare feet on wool carpet, sits the king. He watches outside his window and knows comfortably no one can see him. The empty well, and the abandoned temple sit sinking into the sand, and the king just watches. His love of gold is only matched by his love of good old-fashioned entertainment. “Power,” he says to himself, “Power is a currency…and a beautiful linen cushion.” It’s too hot to go outside but from here the view is enough. The person outside is beginning to turn frantic and the fear is showing in his face.

Underground Temple

An autopsy is being performed, the room has been necessarily sanitized and climate controlled. Potential treatment options are limited, runaway biological pattern replication, the mind has sealed itself in an exoskeleton. Water spills out of the walls and follows neatly its designated paths surrounding the table, soothing to the touch, it ripples gently in rhythm. The body stirs. Color returns.

The smell of iron wafts in with the image, details of the procedure deconstruct and are tallied.