From January 4th until May 30th, 2021, a total of 21 exhibitions will be presented concurrently on our website and the exhibition spaces of the participating galleries.
In addition to hosting online exhibitions, RHE’s digital platform will be a living archive of materials related to the works on view, offering a growing variety of texts and reference materials for each of the projects.
As new materials are added weekly in this section, for the duration of RHE, past and present projects will intermix—informing, counterbalancing, and recontextualizing each other and making a virtue of the broad dimension of the Galleries Curate collaboration.
Mar. 2, 2021
Penny Siopis, She Breathes Water
A contribution by Stevenson
She Breathes Water is a montage of vintage found film, text and sound –the latter a recording of ice cracking, inflected every now and then with refrains of Schubert's Ave Maria. A story emerges. It reads like a fable, parable, or outmoded science-fiction. There is a lunar landscape. The first moon landing? Then a flash as a spear speed underwater. As splash, and a man surfaces. He sports the spear and has a fish in hand. A woman swims. Her head above water. She castigates someone out of view.
The text in her frame suggests she is angry with human history. There are scenes of industry, oil, water, mud, mutant, animals, trees, the weather, men wrestling various forces. Emissions, explosions, extractions, extinctions. There is sacrifice. Whats to be done? 'A strange kind' under the sea offers her ink, with a question, 'can you write a history not all about yout might?' A man exits the frame.
- In her artist statement, Siopis described She Breathes Water as “a fable, parable, or outmoded science fiction”. While these genres are all points of reference, She Breathes Water produces a mode of [cine]writing that is radically estranging. Not only the narrator and subject are non-human; the montage is extremely fragmentary, the logic of the pairings of images and subtitles remains opaque, and the temporality is utterly alien, compressing as it does the whole history of humanity – a synthesis compounded by the brevity of the film, which is just over five minutes in duration. The impression of a non-human point of view is heightened by the strangeness of the images. These are fragments that appear wholly dissociated from meaningful contexts of production and consumption; they are traces of alien memories, vaguely familiar and yet lost in an inaccessible, undecipherable past. The single most estranging element in She Breathes Water, however, is sound. Siopis describes it as “a recording of ice cracking, inflected every now and then with refrains of Schubert’s Ave Maria”. Wind, cracking sounds, sonorous chimes, and water splashes are distinguishable in what strikes the listener as a mostly “organic”, elemental soundtrack.
Laura Rascaroli, ’Can you write a history?’ Penny Siopis’s stylo-caméra and the subject of cine-writing (forthcoming)
- The Southern Ocean is unique among the other great oceans. Waves grow as they travel, and in every other ocean, a wave will eventually hit a continent, limiting its size. But winds and currents in the Southern Ocean can circulate endlessly, with no land barriers to stop them. Waves can, in theory, “lap” themselves, drawing on infinitely circulating fetch; all of the records for largest wave have been recorded in the Southern Ocean (Antonello 2017, 296). The Arctic Ocean, in comparison, is tiny—as well as shallow and calm. Ice in the Arctic only ever gets to about four metres thick, while Antarctic ice can be four kilometres thick. The Southern Ocean exemplifies the characteristics we ascribe to oceans in general: vast, turbulent, drifting.
Charne Lavery, Southern Oceanicity, WISER Podcast, 2020
- She isn’t ‘She’. Siopis tantalises the viewer. If the protagonist in She Breathes Water actually intakes watery breaths, then it’s an impossibility for our human female bather to be the subject in question.
Zoë Whitley, Tentacular Narration (forthcoming)
- Before death, it is said, a person’s life flashes before them, as if in an instant. She Breathes Water is a visceral flash. A fierce five-minute flash spewing outwards like molten lava, filmic sparks flying into the atmosphere, flashing portals to something catastrophic, the rise and fall of a carbon-centred human world. A death flash as told from the Earth Rise planet and its rising waters, from rock and water, the rising and falling off of human-made modernities, designed for some more than others, flashed in found home movie fragments from the twentieth century. A slipping off and dipping under, then, to a world of other than human forms, debased and derided and breathing water, other intelligences, strange kinds, a history to be written now in underwater ink. Siopis’ films are often watery; here we flash to terraqueous form in its fuller immersive thalassic and rising life, to a time beyond what is known but coming towards us.
- The last two artists, Siopis, from South Africa, and Gupta, from India, have little but the vast sea to link them. Gupta’s work is spare, minimal conceptualism while Siopis offers an array of sensual little paintings that teeter on the edge of representation and abstraction. Together, they ask the most vital questions in the exhibition. For Gupta, the fabled fluidity of the ancient Indian Ocean world is something to consider in the coming catastrophe — with surging seas, more frenzied monsoons — as climate refugees drift like flotsam from one closed border to the next. (Her piece “No Hay Frontera Aquí,” a flag sketched roughly on the wall in yellow tape, translates to: “There is no border here.”)
But I’ll give the final word to Siopis, because final is how it feels. Her little paintings, radiant and ghostly, have the feeling of an apocalyptic choose-your-own-disaster — a pair of figures swallowed in flame, a set of eyes burning inside a blue-black froth. But it was her hauntingly gorgeous video, “She Breathes Water,” made for this very show, that had the true air of finality, that whiff of the inevitable.
With a montage of found images — an octopus hunting, its limbs curled menacingly, in black and white; a child whacking at a pinata; a horseshoe crab convulsing, flipped over in the sand — the film, in its disorienting stream of small cruelties, asks a big question. Mother Earth is clearly displeased: “It starts with a splash, your history with me,” reads text on the screen, like the script of a silent film. “Then a catastrophe, your footprint in my sand. ... When waters rise to the sky, when mud swells, you cry for help.” And then: “Can you imagine a world without you?”
It sounds vaguely like a threat — one that’s been building for some time. Go upstairs and listen to the scientists, and you’ll see the threat is far from idle, with time running out. That’s not something I expected from an art exhibition. But maybe it’s time to start.
Murray Whyte, Excerpt from review of INDIAN OCEAN CURRENT: SIX ARTISTIC NARRATIVES. McMullen Museum of Art, Boston College.
Feb. 17, 2021
Exhibition Video, Tempest
A contribution by Sadie Coles HQ and Tanya Leighton
Feb. 13, 2021
Melvin Moti, Interwoven
A contribution by Meyer Riegger
Interwoven is an online photography project taking place from February 12, 2021 until April 10, 2021.
This online photography project will act as a sort of trailer to a physical exhibition, that will take place at Meyer Riegger, Berlin as soon as the situation will allow.
Every day a new photograph will give an insight into the film, which will be the central work of the exhibition.
Resting on the west coast of Taketomi, an island on the Yaeyama Archipelago in Southern Okinawa, stands a rock. Surrounded by the movement of the tides of the sea, this rock, named Niran, is unlike other rocks. It stands out from the sea, upright, as if a sculpture on a pedestal of petrified coral. Its magnifying appeal comes from being a sacred rock and upon closer examination, one will find that, it plays a central role in the spiritual ceremonies conducted by female shamans on the island.
Tucked away on the outmost Southern borders of Japan, the Yaeyama Islands are known to house matriarchal communities. Sacred rocks, such as Niran, may be found scattered over the islands forming a spiritual topography of the islands. Both mysterious and captivating, these sacred rocks are the center of gravitation for a belief-system which is a hybrid of Shintoism, Buddhism and Chinese and Micronesian mythologies.
Since 2016, Moti has been returning to the Yaeyama Islands to photograph and document these rocks, as a part of an ongoing research in the use of rocks on the borderline between raw nature and man-made landscapes. Over 30,000 photographs have been assembled for Moti’s latest film, Interwoven, featuring Niran and other sacred rocks on several Yaeyama Islands. The stories, oral histories and mythologies surrounding these rocks point at the all to human nature of storytelling as a way to form a cultural identity.
Niran, 24°19’40.5”N 124°04’45.0”E, Taketomi Island, Yaeyama, Okinawa, Japan, an essay by Melvin Moti beautifully highlights the ideas supporting this project. You can read it here.
Feb. 11, 2021
Caline Aoun, Water and Data
A contribution by Marfa'
It seems that our media environment has now fully transitioned from analog to digital, the consequential trend being a quasi-total dematerialisation and selective augmentation of our reality. This virtualisation of data, information, images, and even economic, political, and social relations, has widely re-adjusted our experience of time and space, as well as our conventional understanding of both reality versus artifice, as well as community versus self. Our experience of the world has widely been rendered to a constant reception and enduringness of controlled zeros and ones, a restrained experience of reality in machine-readable formats.
Caline Aoun’s art seeks to address the extensive effects of this technological turn of the tide through the recurring themes of cycles, rhythms, oversaturation, and excess found in the sea of data that circulate like water. Cyclical processes, the circulation of information, and the dispersion of matter are the key interpretative elements in her work.
Data and water are analogous and intertwined in many different ways. In fact, the digital realm borrows most of its idiosyncrasies from the taxonomy of water; data is leaked, images are streamed, and one cannot really keep up with the overflow of either when unrestrained, like a waterfall or a tsunami. Data travels in real time through fibre optic cables across the bottom of the world oceans, data centres use hundreds of billions of litres of water per year for electricity generation and cooling, and more and more hard cables are being put underwater near coastal cities in order to attain faster and smoother web surfing and video streaming.
Aoun is thus strongly interested in the different states of data aggregation while using very different and resolutely physical and tactile water-inspired mediums, such as inkjet prints on paper, pulped paper, live streams, and more recently, ink fountains. Aoun has always assimilated the printers in her studio to be like water fountains, but bathed in ink. Ink, which is 90 % water, travels through pipes and pumps from one container to another only to finally be sprayed from the fountain onto a surface.
In various works, Aoun attempts to re-materialise the invisible and intangible flow of digital data by revealing the very real, substantial, and bodily substructure that enables it.
In her exhibition titled Seeing Is Believing shown at the Maxxi museum in Rome, 2018, Aoun turns the immateriality of data, information, and images into tangible weight, volume, or form. The various works on display focus our attention on the impermanence of space and its possible transformation through time. The artist insists on the changeable and cyclical nature of processes, reminding us that the situations around us are not static, but they continuously evolve.
With Contemplating Dispersions 536 ml, the artist generates an environment in which the walls are covered with a grid of paper whose colour gradually disappears, revealing the process of printing when the ink has run out. The ink gradually recedes from the surface of the paper due to a shortage of ink and the clogging of the printer’s ink heads. The image becomes illegible, decomposed in a sequence of lines, until it vanishes completely through a process of exhaustion. Here the image is overridden and determined by its materiality, the ink having run dry, it evaporates leaving the paper’s surface as an exposed ground.
In Fountain, the Ripples on the Surface of Duration, the same ink (a muddy black colour composed of Black, Cyan, Magenta, and Yellow) emanating from the printing process circulates. This art piece is located at the center of the gallery, emphasizing a cyclical process of creation, stagnation, and transformation. Her fountain is full of poetic, multilayered references. The mythological Fountain of Youth comes to mind, that mythical spring that forever preserves and imminently restores the youth of anyone who drinks or bathes in its waters. Aoun’s fountain creates something like a gathering place in the exhibition hall. It reminds us that we are in Rome, a city of fountains. The frail paper wall that moves with a kind of ‘wind’ generated by the passing of visitors is part of Contemplating Dispersions, 536 ml. The latter becomes the screen onto which a livestream of the sea in Lebanon is projected. Aoun’s preoccupation with data’s invisible spaces appears within the pixelated live images of the sea, the camera being directed towards the location of the underwater internet cables in Lebanon. Water translated to data, water becoming data: a sea of data?
The sea, that we often see from a poetic perspective as symbolising the eternal and primeval, appears to Aoun as a place of migration: of goods, people, ideas, as well as waste and data, all of which travel in real time through fibre optic cables across the bottom of the sea. The data in the stream plays a similar role. In computer science, data streams are a continuous flow of datasets, the end of which cannot usually be foreseen in advance. The datasets are continuously processed as soon as a new one is received. This means that this “traveling data” is hardly comprehensible; it is placeless. Ironically, this incredibly colossal sea of data arguably becomes the only one to have found the fountain of youth, for after we are all gone, it in of itself remains immortal, and forever preserved, and potentially immortalising the advertent and inadvertent content from the fleeting lives of its users.
Feb. 5, 2021
Galleries Curate: Together
With Sadie Coles, José Kuri, Jochen Meyer, Mary Sabbatino
Moderated by Clément Delépine
Jan. 31, 2021
Peter Freeman in conversation with Helen Mirra,
Fiona Tan, and Richard Wentworth
A contribution by Peter Freeman, Inc.
Jan. 15, 2021
Heiko Gölzer, About water - part 1
A contribution by Jan Mot
Text published in Newspaper Jan Mot, no. 125, Jan. 2021.
This text is the first part of a series of contributions to the newspaper by Heiko Goelzer, a friend and a scientist working in climate research. He studies the role of ice sheets in the climate system on various timescales in past, present and future and their contribution to sea-level change. Goelzer’s contributions are written on the occasion of our participation in GALLERIES CURATE: RHE, an international exhibition project organised by 21 galleries on the theme of water. Please see also our interview with the author in the previous issue of the gallery’s newspaper.
About water – part 1
By Heiko Goelzer
Oslo, Jan. 6
Our local pond would freeze over in the winters and was only a few minutes by foot from the house I grew up in. Long before my time and before the advent of electric refrigeration units, the pond was created by the local brewery so they could use the ice for cooling. For me, it was the place where I took my first steps on solid ice and learned to skate. Many years thereafter, we went with the whole family every Sunday to an ice-skating rink, where we had artificial but consistent conditions most of the year.
That natural bodies of water freeze over when it gets cold enough for long enough, providing opportunities for ice-skating enthusiasts, may seem like a trivial and unspectacular event. But in fact, it is a remarkable and intriguing phenomenon that is worth a second look. While the density of most other liquids increases when cooled towards the freezing point, water reaches its maximum density around 4 °C. Further cooling beyond that point decreases the density, which makes that the coldest water is always on top and ice can form there. Without this density anomaly of water, our ponds and lakes would freeze from the bottom up, with dire consequences for the plants and animals living there. Whatever the underlying reason for the anomaly (a completely satisfying scientific explanation has yet to be found), it is not only at the root of facilitating the ice-skating experience on natural ice, but pretty much facilitating life itself.
A layer of ice on top of a lake reduces the heat loss to the air above it quite considerably, so that the heat is trapped in the water and ice grows much slower than it would otherwise. And the thicker the ice, the better the separation. This insulating effect of ice on a body of water allows the coexistence of liquid water and air of several tens of degrees below zero, only separated by a few centimetres of ice, which again can be understood as protecting the life beneath it.
It needs a couple of days well below zero to freeze over a lake thick enough with ice to walk on. The famous speed-skating event Elfstedentocht in the Netherlands is only held when the ice everywhere on the almost 200 km long track on a network of connected canals, rivers and lakes is at least 15 cm thick. This only happened in three of the last 50 winters and the last time in 1997, with a near miss for the Elfstedentocht in 2002. For this event, the ice needs to safely support up to 15000 skaters passing through on that one particular day, hence the strict requirements. More risk-tolerant Nordic Skaters on remote lakes, for whom probing that threshold has become part of the sport, have found an ice thickness of around 3 cm as the absolute lowest supporting limit. Close to that threshold, the ice is visibly bending and emitting laser-like sounds as the skater passes over it.
Most of the ice that forms by freezing of water in our environment is called “ice one h” (Ice Ih) and is one of the currently 18 known forms of crystalline ice made from water. The subscript h refers to the hexagonal crystalline structure that we know from our images of snowflakes. Most of the other forms of water ice only occur under conditions very different from our daily experience, high in the atmosphere, in outer space or in the laboratory. The ice that I am working with does not form by freezing of lakes and rivers overnight, it is created over years of snow accumulation high up in the mountains. Every year a new layer of snow is deposited, and lower layers are compressed under the weight of the new snow above. Over time, the air in the snowpack escapes or is compressed as the snow is compacted into solid glacier ice.
The first time I really got in contact with such ice was during a family summer holiday in Switzerland. The hike we did that day started at the Morteratsch railway station at 1900 m down in the valley and got up to the Diavolezza cable-car station at almost 3000 m elevation. On a sunny day, the view up there of the mountain range to the south, marking the border to Italy, is breathtakingly beautiful. On the way up, the key attraction of the hike and reason for my father picking out the route was the crossing of the Morteratsch glacier at around 2500 m. Close to the ice, we had to rope up and put crampons on for the traverse. I had good practice with the climbing harness, and I knew how to tie myself into the rope, but something didn’t feel right. I can still remember the harness much too tight around my chest, I couldn’t breathe well.
Stepping out on the ice is a curious and daunting experience. It may feel as solid as rock under your feet, but there is something uncomfortable, a sensation like fear of height when looking into the abyss. Is the fear transferred from the experience of walking on a frozen lake, not knowing how thick the ice is, if it will hold and what is underneath? It was probably to the better at the time that I didn’t know about the ice actually moving under our feet, even if it was only by several tens of meters a year. But there was also water on the glacier, a lot of it! In the summer this part of the glacier can be free of snow and the ice is melting in the heat of the day. Small streams of melt water collect into bigger streams of water and into rivers on the surface of the glacier. We had to jump over two or three of those on our way. We followed one of the rivers downstream to see where it went. And at some point it abruptly just disappeared from the surface and fell into a big hole in the ice with a screaming and grinding sound. In my imagination, I pictured myself being washed down the river and down the hole to disappear forever in the glacier.
The holes in the glacier are called moulins or glacier mills and form part of the network of conduits and channels that transport the meltwater from the glacier down the valley, on the surface, inside the glacier and under the ice. Walking towards the glacier along the valley floor in the summer, one finds a huge mouth in the glacier front where the water exits. I once met a group of researchers on the glacier that had just returned from exploring part of the internal network of channels. They had ropes and other climbing equipment with them that had allowed them to access the system through a dry moulin similar to the one I had pictured myself being washed down on my first visit to the glacier as a kid. I had mixed feelings about their choice of research method.
It was many years later that I came back to the Morteratsch glacier as part of the annual field trips we did with the research group of my post-doc position in Brussels. We would visit the glacier in early fall just before the first winter snow to measure ice velocity, ice thickness and the amount of melt at the surface. The process involves drilling several-meter deep holes in the ice and planting long plastic stakes that freeze in over the winter. Coming back the next year, the new stake positions are used to determine the ice velocity, while the height of the stake above the surface records the amount of ice that has melted. To plant the stakes and find back the ones from the year before, we would walk all over the glacier, and I had plenty of opportunities to revisit the places of my first encounter with the glacier. But even after years of going back and spending many days on the glacier, the first steps on the ice were always taken with a certain respect that never went away.
The glacier also holds memories well beyond our own timeline. The snow and everything else that is buried with it is well preserved in the upper part of the glacier, where the amount of snowfall exceeds the snow melt. Old ice from a glacier can therefore be used to reveal information about the past. The air trapped in small bubbles in the ice can even serve as direct sample of the atmospheric composition at the time of deposition. For very big, old and slow glaciers, such information can be preserved for hundreds of thousands of years back in time. In our case, the glacier flow transports the ice and enclosed material within a few decades to lower elevations where it eventually melts out. On our excursions, we regularly passed the rusted remains of an airplane wreck from World War II and other signs of human presence on the glacier, including the result of what must have been a more recent fatal skiing accident.
Over the seven years I went to visit the glacier, we documented and experienced an accelerating thinning and retreat of the glacier that was clearly visible from year to year. Places on the glacier tongue we had worked on one year were gone the next. Massive meandering meltwater canyons were carved out of the retreating glacier front. And it was getting more and more difficult to access the shrinking ice from the sides over steepening walls of rocks and debris left behind by the retreating glacier. Based on our measurements and related results from other glaciers, one of my colleagues recently projected that the glacier volume of the entire European Alps will be halved by the year 2050. For the Morteratsch glacier, a further retreat of several hundred meters has to be expected. The hundred meters thick ice I had walked over as a child will then be gone, and the path to the other side will instead go along the rocky valley floor.
Jan. 4, 2021
Francis Alÿs, Song for Lupita, 1998
A contribution by Jan Mot
The exhibition A buoy if not a beacon includes two drawings by Francis Alÿs, entitled Study for the animation Song for Lupita, which are related to the 16mm animation film Song for Lupita. The work depicts a woman pouring water from one glass into another over and over again. This action of doing and undoing is accompanied by a song on vinyl whose words ‘Mañana, mañana is soon enough for me’ might suggest a perpetual procrastination and continuing hope for the future.
This animation is a reflection on the extended struggle against the work ethic and its linear temporality, presented as a contemporary expression of mythical time. The depicted act has no beginning or end, as a woman pours water from one glass into another in an ebb and flow that suggests the abolition of time. The image, Alÿs argued, follows the rule of ‘doing without doing’ or, for that matter of ‘not doing but doing’. Instituting a paradox in time, the song speaks of putting off the task until a ‘tomorrow’ that loops eternally. ‘Tomorrow’, of course, is always and never, that is, ‘now’, or in the artist’s words, ‘a present to be continued’.
This mise en scène of Latin America’s conflictive relation to modernity has also been interpreted as an ironic reflection on the way in which ‘time-based works’ are in effect allegories of suspended history, trapped inside the spell of sameness. The woman in the film also could stand for a peculiar devotion for relentless futility.
Francis Alÿs: A Story of Deception, by Mark Godfrey and Klaus Biesenbach, MoMA New York, 2011, p. 94.
The animation Song for Lupita normally consists of a projection with sound played from a vinyl. On the occasion of Jan Mot’s participation in RHE, Francis Alÿs exceptionally granted permission to present the work online from January 4 until January 10, 2021.
For more information about this work please contact the gallery at firstname.lastname@example.org or +32 2 514 10 10.
A conversation between Jan Mot and Heiko Goelzer
on water and ice and more.
As a scientist working in climate research, Heiko Goelzer studies the role of ice sheets in the climate system on various timescales in past, present and future and their contribution to sea-level change.
This conversation, originally published in Jan Mot’s Newspaper No. 124 (October 2020), is the introduction to a series of three texts by Heiko Goelzer to be published in the coming newspapers of the gallery as well as on the website Galleries Curate.
Jan Mot: When you hear the word ‘water’, what do you think of?
Heiko Goelzer: The first thing I had to think of now was actually tea. Maybe because the first thing I typically do when I get up in the morning is to put water to a boil and make tea. In the new place we live now, the water quality is so good, you can drink it straight from the tab. The water suppliers in most Western cities will tell you that this is possible and that their tap water is the best controlled and regularly tested. That may be so, but in Brussels, the water was so hard, we always used a water filter for our tea. It took out a lot of the calcium and magnesium to make the water softer. I could tell the age of the filter cartridge by the amount of residue in the water cooker. The only thing that is really strange for me about living with soft water now is that it is really difficult to wash off the soap from your hands and body.
JM: Let's change our perspective, from cosy tea-sipping in an Oslo living space to the breaking off icebergs as we heard of yesterday and not for the first time.
HG: Reading about icebergs and disappearing glaciers in the news is really a two-sided sword for me. On the one hand, it is still nice to see that the issue that is close to my heart is getting more press coverage. Climate change and its consequences has really entered our everyday, but it still needs a lot of work to communicate it and get it across. I am also reading these articles with a different angle than most other news. I have typically either heard the story already before it comes into the press, or I can roughly imagine what it is about. So, I am also evaluating if the image that is drawn with all its necessary simplifications is an accurate representation. I remember a realisation I had when I grew up, I must have been around fourteen years old. There was a news magazine article about the city I grew up in. Obviously, I knew the place pretty well from my own experience, and it was shocking to see how inaccurate and biased the descriptions were. Could this also be the case for articles about something that we don’t know something about? On the other hand, current reports about melting land ice give little reason for hope, and the stories that make it to the press are often the more catastrophic ones. In the end, I think the one thing that keeps me from really getting depressed over news like that is my professional relation to the subject that creates at the same time a closeness and distance.
JM: I understand, but I guess everyone’s relation to environmental issues is characterised by closeness and distance at the same time. We all experience it directly, but we also feel it is a problem of enormous proportions that needs to be solved on a higher, political level because individual action alone will not be enough. Or how would you formulate it?
HG: Yes, I think I agree with your notion of responsibility. At the same time, I think it is extremely important that people are ready for changes in their own lives. Political decision making is a slow process, almost by definition, because it concerns so many people. I can make dramatic changes with decisions that concern my own lifestyle almost instantly. Changing what we buy, eat and where we go on holiday as a family or group of friends is already more difficult, because there are more people involved, so to say. But when political incentives come in, and they are coming in more regularly now, we can choose to be hesitant or to be early adopters, where the latter often even comes with long-term benefits. However, I am not so sure about the point of experiencing climate change directly.
The attribution problem of clearly detecting the anthropogenic influence on climate change is scientifically solved, but that does not mean we are really feeling climate change in our daily lives. There are people that do, no doubt, and it often comes with threatening their livelihood, which is terrible. But I am wondering how close burning forests and melting ice sheets are for us really, as long as they are just passing on our screens. The lack of personal contact and engagement with the global environmental crisis has been a big problem since the very beginning. And it is an ongoing struggle for activists and the politically engaged alike that the moment the problem becomes a personal experience for enough people it will be too late to turn the tide.
JM: Coming back to your professional work on ice, can you describe briefly what exactly your work is about and have you always worked on this subject?
HG: I am a physicist by training, and I am now working mainly as a glaciologist and ice sheet modeler. My work is all about how large ice sheets change under different climate conditions and how they contribute to sea-level change. We have currently only two of those, one on Greenland and one on Antarctica. They are called ice sheets, because they are draped over the continents like thin sheets. Thin is relative to the several hundreds of kilometre length: they are ‘only’ a few kilometres thick in their centres. The sheer size of them makes that small changes for them mean large changes for us. When ice sheets lose more mass by melting in a warmer climate, we get sea-level rise as one of the most problematic consequences of global climate change. Working as a modeller means that I study ice sheets and their interactions with other components of the climate system with computer programs that simulate their physical state and evolution. I was personally interested in climate change from early on but did not get into it professionally right away. During my master's I first worked on automatic speech recognition, following my interest in acoustics and signal processing. It was with a PhD in oceanography that I entered into the larger theme of climate change and I started working specifically with ice sheets during my first postdoc position, now more than twelve years ago.
JM: The climatological and environmental situation of our planet is dramatic but are there any positive developments to report?
HG: On the scientific side of things, there are certainly ups and downs. Taking ice sheets again as an example, occasionally, new mechanisms have been proposed suggesting that ice sheet disintegration could go much faster than previously thought. When such mechanisms are finally not confirmed and discarded as implausible, it can feel like a great relief. I have experienced two or three processes of that kind in my career and we may be in the middle of one right now concerning Antarctic ice sheet instability. But science is often a slow process and it can take years for a question like this to be settled. What I really experience as a positive development that gives me hope is people's change of awareness about the global environmental crises over the last 15 years or so. The problem is clearly on people’s mind, on the political agenda and it is taken seriously by many companies and industries. We have a lot of work ahead of us, no doubt, but seeing that climate change and other environmental problems are taken on as global challenges by most countries is a very positive development for me.
Heiko Goelzer is working as a senior researcher at NORCE Norwegian Research Centre and Bjerknes Centre for Climate Research in Bergen, Norway.