Tag Archive for 'Snow'

Frozen Sea

Published on 21, February, 2009 in Antarctica. 0 Comments Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , .
Pancake ice forming on the surface of the ocean

Pancake ice forming on the surface of the ocean

Day 30; February 21, 2009; Penguin Bukta, Fimbul Ice Shelf, Southern Ocean, Antarctica
Average Daily Temperature: 24.53˚ F
Average Daily Wind Speed: 14.77 mph
Feels Like: 2.38˚ F

This morning I awoke to find that the sea had literally begun to freeze. All around the ship, and as far as I could see, the surface of the ocean was covered in small discs of solid ice. Though the equinox is still a month away, which definitively marks the change of seasons, one can already see the signs of the quickly approaching winter.

Watching the Southern Ocean freeze before my eyes was an awesome sight—completely profound, if not seemingly impossible.

Pancake Ice

Pancake Ice

The discs of ice that had appeared overnight are called “pancake ice,” and they are formed in a most remarkable way. As the temperature of the ocean water begins to drop to the point of freezing, the surface water, which has less salinity, will begin to freeze first. However, as the ocean is never still, when the ice begins to form it knocks about gently on the surface waves, bumping into other forming bits of ice. The persistence of the motion means the ice plates are always colliding into one another, eroding each other’s edges which results in their round shape.

The last flights from SANAE arrived before lunch, and with everyone on board, the ship embarked on the long voyage north. As we moved away from the ice shelf, and the continent of Antarctica, the boat made its way through the newly frozen surface of the calm ocean, marking our path behind us. The petrels were darting around the ship, following our northerly tack. Icebergs towered, ever luminous, in all directions.

The panorama held my vision in earnest for the next six hours. The sunlight, which disappeared occasionally behind light cloud cover, was creating the seascape anew minute by minute. Literally, I could photograph the same direction three times within a short period, and the color of the ocean would be a gloomy gray in one, a radiant gold in another, and an icy deep blue in the third. Impossibly striking scenes passed before our eyes, every direction a new opportunity to gasp. I have over 800 photographs from this day, and have found it an entirely hopeless effort to try to edit them—each one holds a unique beauty, leaving me quite confounded as to how claim one superior to another.

Before long, the pack ice, which is the ice left over from the previous winter’s freeze, was scattered across the horizon, forming a theatrical stage upon which the light continued to play. Every moment was a magnum opus. Large flat pieces of ice in the shapes of squares or triangles became like monochromatic light sculptures. Jagged pieces, which sliced upward into the sky or downward into the sea, were like truculent brushstrokes upon the foreground. As I watched the landscape before me, I esteem more deeply the paintings I had seen at the Peabody Essex Museum in Salem, Massachusetts the day before I left on this journey—a wonderfully curated exhibition of historic paintings of the Arctic and Antarctic regions.

These artists, some of the first to see Antarctica, let alone paint it, had sought to represent the landscape with an air of emotionality—they attempted to reproduce nature accurately, but ever imbued with the human effort and adventure that led them to be there. I remember, as I looked into those paintings, wondering if they were a bit sensational in their approach, but now I believe that not to be the case at all. They are sensational, yes, but insofar as they accurately portray the real and persistent drama of the nature itself. Those paintings are more impressive to me now, having seen this place with my own eyes—I couldn’t have known beforehand the land those paintings yearned after. Now, I know.

I was fortunate to catch a glimpse of penguins amongst the pack ice several times throughout the day. On one large flow, there were four Adélie penguins and one Emperor penguin, which allowed a clear view of the size difference. Scurrying along the ice, sometimes standing upright looking directly at you, and then suddenly dropping on to their bellies and sliding around on the ice, they seem somehow comical and noble at the same time. I also spotted a small pod of Minke Whales in the distance, their dark fins emerging elegantly from the water as they surfaced for air.

At dusk, light continued in vain to pursue the expanding darkness. Several times the vista before me would be entirely a dark grayish blue, save for a single iceberg in the distance, which would be fully illuminated in the warm brilliance of the remaining sunlight. Perfectly horizontal lines of light would appear and disappear in seconds. The day, indeed a masterpiece in color and light, finally dissolved into night with the sun setting on the last remaining pack ice before we reached the open ocean. Behind me, Antarctica would still be illuminated, but in my growing distance, I could no longer see it.
***

Bidding Farewell

Published on 19, February, 2009 in Antarctica. 0 Comments Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , .
Ice berg floating off the Ice Shelf

Iceberg floating off the Ice Shelf

Day 28; February 19, 2009; Penguin Bukta, Fimbul Ice Shelf, Southern Ocean, Antarctica
Average Daily Temperature: 20.93˚ F
Average Daily Wind Speed: 35.1 mph
Feels Like: -31.72˚ F

Dawn both elated my soul and dimmed my heart, as this sunrise marked my last day on the continent of Antarctica for this journey. I had been up all night, again, attempting to observe and capture the ever-changing nature around me. The base was completely silent, deep in the arms of Morpheus. I, bundled in all of my gear, took the video camera outside to record the light from our massive star, which was proclaiming the day on the southern horizon.

Facing east into 30-knot winds, I sat on the ground in the tumult of wailing wind and fiercely blowing ice crystals. My body swayed in the chaotic pulsing of the wind’s force while I anchored the camera as best I could and began my 30-minute recording. The strong morning light refracted off each frozen water crystal and magnified itself throughout the snowy distance. The world around me was almost painfully radiant—as if the ice itself was ablaze. What a sublime and ethereal world Antarctica is!

This was the same phenomenon I had experienced my first day arriving at SANAE, and now on my last it seemed somehow fitting to be experiencing it again; a full circle. Cycles are the hidden breath of our being—the innate rhythm of traversing time. The closing of one cycle always denotes the opening of another, and as I looked out across the luminous layer of snow that hovered almost two feet from the ground, my own body seemingly suspended in its westerly flow, I surrendered to the cold, the wind, and my last moments on the Ice. Antarctica has shown me so much of its magnificence—I’m ever stunned and awed by its force and sovereignty.

Upon my return from outside, I rushed to put the remaining things into my bags and joined Thomas and 1stborn, and headed off to the heli-pad. It would take three days to transport everyone from the base to the ship, save the ten people remaining for the winter, and we had been scheduled to depart on the very first flight to the ship. Having secured the sole window seat in advance so I could photograph the landscape during our hour-long journey to the sea, I peered out of the bulbous aperture and watched as the helicopter leapt upward into the air currents. Neall and Kevin, our pilots, were generous with our flight, and we had a great tour of the nunataks and their wind scoops en route to the ice shelf. Beyond the mountain range, we passed over massive geometries of crevasses, and the elongated patterns of cloud shadows stretching, as if lines, across the snow-covered landscape.

With my eyes lost on the horizon, my mind turned inward, and before long emotion overtook me. I was leaving Antarctica, and the deep feeling of loss that emerged surprised me. My affinity for this land had been immediate and absolute, and my departure from the ice continent filled me with enormous sorrow. Tears flowed in gratitude for the pure beauty and grace of my experience here, and for the gifts Antarctica had bestowed. It is, indeed, a privilege to come to this land and experience its phenomenal nature. Antarctica shall never leave me.

My melancholy transformed instantly as the ice shelf became visible below, revealing the birthplace of icebergs. From this vantage point, I could see clearly where staggeringly large areas of the shelf had just broken off, and where others would soon follow. These ice islands, entirely unmoored, drift freely northward on their lonely voyage out to sea, where they continue to break down and melt as they traverse the latitudes toward warmer waters.

The sight was literally breathtaking—hundreds of colossal icebergs floated effortlessly along the coast, despite their sheer mass. Tiny air bubbles caught in the ice layers make the icebergs particularly buoyant, causing them to rise even higher than the surface of the shelf itself once they are freed from it. Amazingly, the visible area of an iceberg—above the ocean’s surface—displays only 30 percent of its actual size. The remaining 70 percent lies hidden under the sea.

It is a wondrous experience to see these remarkable forms scattered across the horizon, appearing as impossible mountains. Their surreal, luminous grandeur seemed in stark contrast to the grey-bronze sea. As I marveled at their amorphous shapes, the sun streaked golden light behind the thick clouds, painting the dark water with a warm shimmer.

We had begun our descent, and quickly the red deck of the SA Agulhas Research Vessel appeared below. We landed with the ship at sea, the watercraft rocking in the waves as I stepped off the helicopter. Finding my balance, and attuning my body to what would be two weeks aboard this ship, I looked back toward the continent. The icebergs, which I had seen from the air, were now towering around us, their presence insistent and hypnotic. The ice shelf behind them glowed brightly in the now midmorning sun.
***

Keeping it Real

Published on 12, February, 2009 in Antarctica. 0 Comments Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , .
Thomas Mulcaire entering ICEPAC in the windy snow mist

Thomas Mulcaire entering ICEPAC in the windy snow mist

Day 21; February 12, 2009; Vesleskaervet, Dronning Maud Land, Antarctica
Average Daily Temperature:  
Average Daily Wind Speed:   
Feels Like:  

Tonight would be my last night sleeping in ICEPAC on this trip. The wind had picked up, and while ICEPAC remained calm and firmly poised against the 20+ knot winds, it was not impervious to the cold air. Deeply inside two sleeping bags, I was still tensely chilled in the biting temperature.

There are few things quite as humbling and centering like sleeping in a tent in Antarctica. Out in these harsh elements, one is called to be completely present with the force of this icy, windy continent—one must stay mindful, or face severe risks. Thomas, 1stborn and I have been remarking that living in ICEPAC, verses at the main base, puts one in this mindset. It has been aligning us with the reality of where we are on the earth. Our new motto for ICEPAC: Keeping it real in Antarctica…

One of my goals here in Antarctica this expedition season was to explore the possibility of the ICEPAC structure, in tandem with its wind/solar power, as the living space for my proposed 30-day field expedition for the production of The Polar Project. I need a structure that can house 6-8 team members, store our provisions for the potential month-long recording time, and provide workspace for monitoring the equipment, footage and audio. When Thomas and I first spoke, the intent was to come and see it work in the field first hand. The experiment was to live in the space for as long as we could once it was in operational order.

Although shorter than we had originally hoped, the time I spent in ICEPAC gave me ample opportunity to consider its potential for The Polar Project’s field structure. I believe the structure itself is a genius design in many ways. For example, the geodesic skeleton and the ovular shape made it completely feasible in strong winds. The harder the wind blew, the stronger its grip of the earth—even in the fiercest winds we had on this trip, the core structure didn’t even so much as vibrate in the wind!

There are several key things that I have been considering which would help regulate the temperature better from day to night, as well as keep it generally warmer. With a bit of innovation, the 2.0 version of this extreme weather habitat should be the perfect home for The Polar Project.
***

Solar Alchemy

Published on 11, February, 2009 in Antarctica. 2 Comments Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , .
The Holzer Polar Sundial, by artist Steve Holzer

The Holzer Polar Sundial, by artist Steve Holzer

Day 20; February 11, 2009; Vesleskaervet, Dronning Maud Land, Antarctica
Average Daily Temperature: 
Average Daily Wind Speed: 
Feels Like:

Several days before I left Marfa to start my journey here to Antarctica my good friend Steve Holzer and I found ourselves in a conversation about sundials. I had remarked that the sundial up at the McDonald Observatory was, ironically, inaccurate for most of the year, as it didn’t account for daylight savings time. Steve, a true renaissance man, has spent a lot of time between the worlds of art and science and is, himself, both artist and inventor. Steve, it turned out, had designed a sundial back in 1982 which would work regardless of daylight savings (or other factors)—it would even work at the North or South Pole. The dial, he said, while never tested in a Polar environment, would be accurate even during the time in the year when the sun goes around the horizon 24-hours a day. Quickly, we realized the potential, and immediately decided he should make one for me to take to Antarctica.

I have always had a fascination with sundials, being the tool by which one marks the distinct and measurable relationship between the earth’s rotation around our sun. It seems possible that, only through some alchemy, the sun could be forged into time. Thus, sundials for me summon a time in antiquity when the sciences, then termed natural philosophy (which is not science as it is defined today) and astronomy were imbued with a deep sense of enchantment for the natural world. In light of this, I was thrilled to interject this solar-conjured time device into the ICEPAC mission—an artistic, scientific and environmentally sustainable object, which intrinsically met the vision of ITASC to be completely wind and solar operated in the field.

With very little time to spare given my imminent departure, Steve set about constructing a sundial that was constrained by several serious limitations. First, it had to be extremely portable because I had strict weight restrictions for my flight to Antarctica. It also had to be very durable to accommodate the catabatic winds on the ice field where it would be installed. Steve also made the sundial to be specific to the exact coordinates of the base, so that it was literally site-specific.

The Holzer Polar Dial arrived at my door the day before my departure. About the dial, Steve writes:

It is an equatorial dial, with line AB parallel to the equator and the plane of the dial plates at right angles to the equator. The dial plates are numbered with the hours of daylight. For this installation, I have made a dial that will read all twenty-four hours of potential daylight in the southern latitudes. The Gnomon casts a shadow on the dial plate and the Sun’s shadow travels through the hours. At the hours of twelve (both a.m. and p.m.) and six (a.m. and p.m.), the Sun’s shadow can be read on the dial plate that the shadow is leaving as well as the dial plate that the shadow is beginning to travel through.

I have oriented the dial to be parallel to the equator by establishing the co-latitude, which is found by subtracting the local latitude from 90°. The co-latitude for the SANAE Research Base location, 71° South, is 19°. (90° – 71°) = 19°. This orients the 8″ x 8″ equatorial plate parallel to the equator with the dial plates at right angles to the equator.

Pointing the north mark of the equatorial plate at the pole star, or in this case (Southern Hemisphere) with a compass to north, aligns the dial to read Solar Time, Local Mean Time. For the sake of this installation, we shall set the dial by pointing it appropriately north and setting the dial with a clock set to Greenwich Mean Time. As the location is at 2° of longitude west, which equates to about 6 minutes, it is accurate enough for general observation of the hours of sunlight.

I happily squeezed the gorgeous object into my bag, and thus, the story of its fantastic journey began…

When I checked into my flight to Boston, where I’d be for two days before flying on to Cape Town, I was told by the airline that my bag was overweight and that I would be charged additionally for my excess baggage. This wasn’t a problem for my flight to Boston, but it was a huge problem for my flight to Antarctica—because the scale was telling me I was over my limit by more than twenty pounds. So, when I got to Boston, I necessarily purchased a much smaller, lighter duffle bag, and ran around getting various parts for cameras that were made of lighter metals or were more compact styles. Finally, when repacking my bags, I had to leave out books, clothing, and sadly, the Holzer Polar Dial, which literally would not fit into my new bag.

I was completely devastated, and I knew Steve would be also. Somehow, though, I just couldn’t bring myself to explain to him why it could not go with me—and it would be days before I realized why I felt I should wait to tell him.

About two days after my arrival in Cape Town, Thomas and I were zipping around doing one errand or another, and I mentioned the Holzer Polar Dial, and having sadly abandoned it in Boston. Thomas realized instantly how great it would be to have the sundial at ICEPAC with us, and said he thought there might be a way to get it shipped to us in Antarctica if we acted quickly. So, I rushed to phone my father, who was just about to leave for work, and asked him to Fedex the sundial to me in Cape Town via International Priority delivery. My father grabbed the dial, packed and shipped it right away, and off it went to South Africa.

At that time, we knew we would be delayed flying to Antarctica by at least one day due to bad weather, and there was the possibility of it being delayed further. Thus, there was at least a slim chance that the sundial would get to Cape Town in time to make it on the plane with us. In the end, however, the skies in Antarctica cleared earlier than anticipated, and we made our flight to Antarctica before the sundial had arrived. The sundial finally arrived four days later to Bobby de Beer’s warehouse in Cape Town, with Thomas and I already at SANAE base in Antarctica.

Seeing that it had arrived via internet tracking, we had scheduled with the base’s radio room to make a phone call in order to complete the arrangements for the sundial to be shipped to us. Thomas had already confirmed with ALCI, the company we flew to Antarctica with, that they would be happy to bring the sundial on the next flight to the continent, which was leaving the following day, February 9th, and then would put it on the feeder flight that was coming on the 10th to pick up Alfons. This was a rather big deal, as the costs are normally huge to get packages on these infrequent flights to the southern ice cap.

Lorna de Beer answered the phone at the warehouse, where the sundial was awaiting its next leg of the journey, and she was gracious enough to agree to deliver the package to ALCI the same day so it would be sure to make the flight. The package was driven from the warehouse to the ALCI offices, and then brought to the airport, loaded onto the Ilyushin 75-TD and flown to NOVO Station in Antarctica. From NOVO, it was transferred to the feeder flight, which came directly to SANAE.

Yesterday, when I met the plane out on the northern ice field that dropped the package and then picked up Alfons, it was handed to me from the aircraft still in its Fedex box appearing to those around me that I was receiving a Fedex in Antarctica. (If only!) The dial arrived mostly intact, with only one piece of the fiberglass broken. Luckily, the carpenters at the workshop at the base were kind enough to assist me in fashioning a suitable replacement, and quickly Steve’s Polar Dial was operational, and, at long last, in Antarctica!

We brought it straight away to ICEPAC, and while I was leveling it and directing its marker northward, I yelled to Thomas across the windy evening “what time is it?” to check if I had positioned it properly. “7pm” he replied. I looked down at the sundial, and the shadow from the evening sun was already marking the 7 line on the dial. Perfect. The sundial glistened in the Antarctic sunlight, casting its remarkable shadow onto the fiercely blowing snow.

I have arranged for the sundial to remain at SANAE for the next 12 months, in the capable hands of Lötter Kock, who is the SANAE 48 overwintering Team Leader. He will reset the dial closer to the base, and send pictures and video clips of it throughout the year during the sunlit months. Stay tuned for a Holzer Polar Dial page on my blog, which will host updates from SANAE. For additional information about Steve or the Holzer Polar Dial you can also check out his website: www.steveholzer.com
***

Clear Skies

Published on 10, February, 2009 in Antarctica. 0 Comments Tags: , , , , , , , , , , .
Feeder Flight from SANAE to NOVO for Alfons

Feeder Flight from SANAE to NOVO for Alfons

Day 19; February 10, 2009; Vesleskaervet, Dronning Maud Land, Antarctica
Average Daily Temperature: 
Average Daily Wind Speed: 
Feels Like: 

I have been awake now for over thirty hours, having just completed my light recording piece. As exhausted as I am, I deeply enjoy the space that I traverse during these long periods of documenting light. Watching, diligently, the subtle shifts in color and intensity—I am ever entranced by the grace of natural phenomena.

In the late afternoon, the feeder flight arrived to take Alfons to NOVO, where he will catch his flight back to Cape Town. We all went down to send him off, waving goodbye as he boarded the aircraft.

I also had a package arriving for me on this flight, which had been flown in from Cape Town the day before. But as I am entirely fatigued from my long shoot, I will save the adventure of this package, and its contents, for tomorrow.

It occurred to me, holding my parcel and watching the airplane wane against broad the sky, that I have not seen a single jet trail since I arrived in Antarctica. This is something quite remarkable, as the skies I’m used to are generally cluttered with the crisscrossing lines of airplane exhaust. I found myself relieved to see a sky that was entirely untainted.
***

Resonance

Published on 8, February, 2009 in Antarctica. 0 Comments Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , .
The almost full moon rising on the northern horizon

The almost full moon rising on the northern horizon

Day 17; February 8, 2009; Vesleskaervet, Dronning Maud Land, Antarctica
Average Daily Temperature: 13.64˚ F
Average Daily Wind Speed: 18.12 mph
Feels Like: -13.54˚ F

This morning I awoke quite early to find that the cold had seeped into my bones overnight.

Just before midnight last night I had walked down to ICEPAC, intent on sleeping the night in our field camp. The sun was below the horizon, but as I ambled across the snow to our field camp, there was still enough light to guide my way. The night was clear, and the deep evening colors had seeped into the ice—everything was indigo and pink, and the softness of the panorama lulled me into sleepiness.

Thomas and Firstborn were already there when I arrived, and after arranging my bed and getting settled for the evening, we decided to watch a movie projected onto the cloth divider, which provides privacy for the camp’s bathroom, at one end of the structure—powered, of course, by the wind and the sun. Snug inside my sub-zero sleeping bag, snacking on some sweets in our camp provisions, we watched “The Bank Job,” which played in stark comparison to our environs.

After the movie, Thomas and Firstborn already fast asleep, I lay there trying to figure out how to stay warm. Mummy bags, as they are called here, are designed for sub-zero temperatures, and their thick down-filled walls were quite necessary for camping in the Antarctic. There is a small peephole for your face, which, once you are completely zipped inside, allows you to breath. But even this small aperture lets the cold in, so I found myself wrapping my head in my wool hat and putting my scarf over my mouth so that I was breathing through it. In short, I was completely enclosed—and I was still cold. It seemed impossible, but for some reason, I just could not get warm.

My sleep was a bit restless, but upon awaking, my deep chill started to wane. The sun was quite strong already, and ICEPAC’s black exterior was starting to bring the heat from its rays inside. Touching the side of the tent’s red interior fabric walls, I could feel the radiation warming my skin, and the fabric itself was almost hot. So amazing that, even in this frozen terrain, one can still know the warmth from our star.

We lingered for quite a while at our field camp, racing back to the main base just as lunch was finishing. There had been an incredible light across the western planes, which I could see on our way back. The clouds, filtering just some of the sun’s rays, cast bright highlights and dark shadows across the ice. Nature is ever present in one’s consciousness here, and always unrepeated.

In the evening, after dinner, I gave a talk on my work and presented The Polar Project. It was great to have an opportunity to share my work with the scientists and base staff, as most of them did not know why I’m here. There was a wonderful response to the project, and I had lots of enthusiastic questions and people coming up afterward wanting to talk more about it or offer their services to the effort.

I reflected afterward, as I looked out my window at the darkening mountains to the south, about what a profoundly meaningful experience it was for me to speak the mission of the project while here in Antarctica. Sound, like light, travels across the landscape, gets absorbed by and reflected off of the snow and ice. Resonance. To know that my words and intent have, as sound frequency, reverberated into the ice, out beyond the wind and across the planes, I couldn’t help but wonder if Antarctica had heard me.

As the clock showed the day had come to an end, the almost full moon peeked its head up on the northern horizon. The moon has been below the horizon since my arrival, and so watching the luminous orb rise and set through the low clouds was like seeing an old friend. How fortunate we are to have a moon!
***

What is White

Published on 7, February, 2009 in Antarctica. 4 Comments Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , .
Light reflecting off ice crystals

Light reflecting off ice crystals

Day 16; February 7, 2009; Vesleskaervet, Dronning Maud Land, Antarctica
Average Daily Temperature: 17.78˚ F
Average Daily Wind Speed: 13.42 mph
Feels Like: -2.35˚ F

A colour is never merely a colour, but the colour of a certain object…
-Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Phenomenology of Perception

Here in Antarctica there is snow and ice virtually everywhere, a fact that may at first seem elementary but upon deeper reflection is infinitely complex. The impressive quantity of these natural crystalline elements extends as much vertically as they do horizontally, permeating the air and cloaking the land. The depth of the ice beneath my feet approaches 30 feet, with the thickest ice on the continent measuring nearly three miles. Above the frozen land, even the sky is saturated with floating ice particulate, which are seized by the wind, and whirled about at chaotic speeds. These icy eddies allow for the quality of air that encourages the magnificent atmospheric optics that I see throughout the day.

The luminous expanse of the ice fields tempts my eyes to peer out toward the boundless horizon, as if trying to redefine the periphery of my own vision, enticing me to look beyond the limits of my former perceptions. There, hanging on the diaphanous line between land and sky, I see only endless snow and ice. Even in the direction of the mountains to the south, where the nunataks of the Ahlmann Ridge Range break the flatness of the terrain, it is the insistent presence of snow and ice that prevails.

It would be natural to presume the whiteness of such a landscape, and yet the more time I spend watching the environment each day, the less I believe in white at all. While there are momentary glimpses of something that feels like white, as when the mid-noon sun pushes its strong rays against the landscape so that the sheer brightness of its downward angle eliminates all hope of color, in truth it is luminosity that reigns. White, then, seems to become only a vehicle for the action of light upon the landscape, yet what is persistently baffling is that white can only exist as a consequence of light.

The idea of white is rather like the idea of zero. In a sense they are both elusive, and at the same time they each define entire systems, in science and mathematics, respectively. While they themselves are intangible, they give birth to their own infinities. Both white and zero each contain within them their own intrinsic paradox: white appears to the eye as the absence of all color, and yet it can be scientifically proven that it is comprised of all color, while zero is the sum total of nothingness and yet it can be proven to exist. Interestingly, they have both in various ways referred to the idea of the void. White and zero are lone wolves, isolated, like the continent of Antarctica itself, from the very things to which they are intrinsically connected.

White is not, itself, a color in the visible spectrum of light, but rather the sum total of them all. If you take all the color frequencies in the observable gamut, which range from 380 to 750 nanometers, you would get white light. Sir Isaac Newton, standing on the shoulders of earlier optical scientists, showed us these basic principals in his legendary prism experiment. By placing a prism in the direct path of the sun, he saw that white light divided into the pure spectral colors otherwise known as violet, blue, green, yellow, orange, red.

If white is the summation of all spectral color, then why do we experience white to be the absence of it? While Newton’s discovery furthered science in extraordinary ways, what of this theory of quantitative differentiation tells us of the millions of other colors we experience that have no name? The world as we see it with our senses is not merely comprised of these six colors.

Philosophically, white has always been attributed to the “blank canvas,” new beginnings, and is a beacon for peace and purity. Yet, is anything actually white? When we think we perceive white, we actually can still see bits of other colors, as light reflects and refracts across objects and surfaces. For instance, observe an average white-painted wall throughout the course of a 24-hour period. At first you take for granted that it is white because you expect it to be white. However, when you look more closely, and with time, you will see how slightly bluish the wall is by the window at midday, and slightly yellowish it is by the lamp you turned on after sunset, and how an orange chair is reflecting slightly onto the wall, making a glowing orangey spot of color appear.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, the great philosopher and color theorist, was less interested in separating the spectrum into its divisible parts, as Newton was, but investigated instead the vague space between the pure colors, where the clear delineation between one color and the next was more mysterious. He looked not to the individual wavelengths but to the merging of short-wave light and long-wave light. He looked to where light interacted with itself. His research began with the notion that color, or light, was in fact a perceptual act that necessarily included a more introspective interpretation.

Looking out toward the horizon, with the subtle hues of colors blending and overlapping before my eyes, I begin to see the wisdom of his thinking. This complex system of light, and our seeing of it, maintains that the world of natural phenomena lies quite beyond the mind.

The observer does not see a pure phenomenon with his eyes, but more with his soul. Information from the eye depends on the disposition of the organ at the moment, on light, air atmospheric conditions, matter, manipulation, and a thousand other circumstances.
Goethe, January 15, 1798 (From Goethe’s Color Theory)

Observing, then, pure phenomenon itself, like the suns rays bouncing off the snow, or refracting through suspended ice crystals that are blowing in the strong Antarctic winds, I don’t perceive just one color, but many simultaneously. These substances—ice and snow—are prisms in their own right, and so display for us a myriad of colors as the result of light passing through them as they mingle together throughout the land and sky. But, then, the question remains, what color are all the individual frozen water crystals themselves? Are they white?

Physiologically, white is the perceptual experience which is elicited by light, and which subsequently activates the three kinds of color sensitive cone cells in our eyes in equal amounts. There is virtually an endless number of combinations of colors in the visible spectrum that will stimulate these cones in such a way—in other words, the illusion of white can be accomplished by an almost infinite number of luminous color circumstances. So then where does white exist? Is it a function only of our mind?

As I watch, minute-by-minute, the way the light interacts with the ice, snow and floating crystalline particulate, I am ever fascinated by the realization that what is purportedly “white” before me, is truly anything but. Explicit indigos, barely pale blues, vague, misty yellows, severe and subdued pinks, impossible violets and lavenders, farouche grays. These, and a million others, are the colors that pervade the sky and land here. Even if they are ever so softly imbuing the surface of the pale ice or snow, the color is present, and changing subtly throughout the day. Virtually everything in this landscape is a refracting surface, waiting to scatter and reflect light. Antarctica literally holds light within it. As coherent sunlight (white light) moves slowly throughout the environment here, it shimmers across and beneath the ice and snow, making everything luminous from the inside, and displaying colors that seem unimaginable.

Looking out again to the landscape as if for some clarity, I watch the deep interplay between light and crystal and find respite in its mysterious nature. Goethe reminds me, “…the highest is to understand that all fact is really theory. The blue of the sky reveals to us the basic law of color. Search nothing beyond the phenomena, they themselves are the theory.”

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Grunehogna

Published on 6, February, 2009 in Antarctica. 3 Comments Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , .
Titan 1, on the ice field next to Grunehogna

Titan 1, on the ice field next to Grunehogna

Day 15; February 6, 2009; Vesleskaervet, Dronning Maud Land, Antarctica
Average Daily Temperature: 18.14˚ F
Average Daily Wind Speed: 11.63 mph
Feels Like: 0.69˚ F

It was half an hour before lunch when I finally awoke. On my way to the dinning room to find some caffeine, my stomach clearly announcing it was ready for a meal, I ran into the helicopter pilots of Titan 1, Neall Ellis and his son and co-pilot, Kevin Ellis. Wishing me a good afternoon, they told me that we would be flying to Grunehogna in 30 minutes and to gather my things. With my first cup of coffee sloshing over the rim of my mug as I ran around getting all my gear and equipment together, I felt a rush of elation at the prospect of journeying into the field.

We were all a bit frenetic from the quick notice of our departure. Alfons was actually down at our mobile base and Thomas had rushed off on the skimobile to fetch him, but before long everyone arrived at the hanger at the north end of the base. Titan 1′s voice thundered loudly, its two sets of blades slicing the air at top speed in opposing directions, and we were quickly airborne. Flying over the base and around our nunatak, we then turned south and glided out toward the mountain range in the distance—the view which I photograph incessantly each and every day.

The Titan 1 aircraft is a Kamov Ka32, which was built in Russia and designed for extremely heavy lifting. It has two sets of counter-rotating propeller blades, and therefore requires no additional tail propeller, which reduces its body length yet provides a lift capacity of 11,000 pounds. The helicopter is specially equipped to fly in extreme cold conditions, and can carry up to fifteen passengers and a crew of three. Today, we were a total of nine.

The afternoon grew more beautiful with each moment. The air was noticeably warm, almost gentle, as there was no wind blowing at all, but the light was strong and captivating. As we passed by the other massive rock formations along the 15 minute flight to Grunehogna, the details below were spectacular—we were only flying about 500 feet off the ground. Clearly visible were the patterning the ice and snow makes from the winds. Each continuous wave spread out over the drifting snow to fit perfectly into the next. The sun demarcated the altitude of each crest with strong highlights, marking the frozen ground as if a natural drawing, like charcoal on white paper.

The mountains here are striking. Intensely hard rock jutting upward across the ice planes, makes me wonder at the history of this place. How did this all form? Vesleskarvet, the name of the nunatak upon which we are living, is at the north-eastern edge of the Ahlmannryggen (Ahlmann Ridge) of mountains. Ahlmann Ridge, 71°50′S 2°25′W, is a broad, mainly ice-covered ridge, about 70 miles long, and scattered with other nunataks, Grunehogna being one of them. The ridge rises between the Schytt and Jutulstraumen Glaciers and extends from Borg Massif northward to Fimbul Ice Shelf here in beautiful Queen Maud Land. I must speak with the Geologists here at the base to learn more about the age and formation of this area…

Reaching the edge of Grunehogna, one realizes the shear strength of the wind in Antarctica. Catabatic winds, as it is called here, blow out from the large and elevated ice sheets of Antarctica toward the sea. The buildup of high density cold air over the ice sheets combined with high elevation brings enormous gravitational energy, which propels the winds to incredible speed, sometimes surpassing even hurricane force. The catabatic winds carve a deep incurvation at the base of the nunataks as they blow around them. Like a moat, these wind scoops surround these majestic rock castles, leaving a frozen lake at the bottom in hues of the lightest blues and rippled like the surface of water. One has to look closely to see that it isn’t actually a moving body, but solid, because your mind doesn’t expect it to be as such.

The day flowed on. Thomas and 1stborn, along with the help of the rest of the group, dug intensely into the snow to find the buried snow accumulation flag, our day’s mission, which ITASC had placed there on their 2006 expedition. They had the exact GPS coordinates, but even with a twelve foot diameter hole which was in places 4 to 5 feet deep, we still could not find the flag. Suppositions were put forth: could it have blown free and away, could it have been so buried by a storm that it was much deeper than we could dig, could it have moved from its original location by the natural flow of the ice toward the sea? We may never know. In the end, we made a large hole, a full day’s effort, for seemingly nothing. Spirits were down, even as we made strong coffee over the camp stove to keep the energy going and have something warm to keep the cold at bay. When we received a radio call from the base saying that we could stay an extra hour in the field, we continued the search, but to no avail.

The flag might have eluded us, but the day did not. In spite of the disappointment of not fulfilling the journey’s purpose, a vastly different aspiration was perfected: to simply be here, and experience Antarctica in all of its wonder and magnificence. To have spent the day feeling in my bones the immense thickness of the ice below my feet, and the ancientness of the rock mountain towering above me—I was steeped in the essence of this place.

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On the Horizon

Published on 3, February, 2009 in Antarctica. 1 Comment Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , .
Light on the eastern horizon

Light on the eastern horizon

Day 12; February 3, 2009; Vesleskaervet, Dronning Maud Land, Antarctica
Average Daily Temperature: 15.08˚ F
Average Daily Wind Speed: 12.30 mph
Feels Like: -3.37˚ F

Last night was the opening of ICEPAC, the Bienal del Fin del Mundo’s Antarctic venue. The whole base gathered down at the remote mobile base for music, video art, and dancing to celebrate this cultural center in Antarctica as an event and a place. We had spent the whole day preparing for the opening, and organizing various components of the exhibition. After dinner we all gathered in the media room for Alfons Hug’s lecture about the exhibition here in Antarctica as well as its other venues in Ushuaia, Argentina and Rio de Janeiro and Sao Paulo, Brazil.

Once the discussion that followed the talk had concluded, everyone jumped on skimobiles and made their way down to the black geodesic tent. I spent too much time gathering my equipment, missing the ride down, and so set about walking there on my own. The evening was soft, the wind gentle, and light was bending across the land, alluding to colors that would intensify as the night progressed. Standing there feeling the air, I could see the party commencing below, and began my short trek.

There is nothing like being alone in Antarctica. Spending even short durations of solitude out on the ice is to be confronted by the unyielding expanse of nature. One peers into the horizon as if it were a tether, but it is at once a doorway and a mirror.

I have spent most of my days here in Antarctica gazing out toward the horizon, and find it leads me to reflect deeply on the Earth’s spherical shape. As I look into the endlessness in front of me, whichever direction I look, I can see the slight curvature of our planet, and it conjures up the image of the little blue globe I have back at home. Often I would hold the globe in my hands and look at Antarctica, always having to turn the object up-side-down in order to find the hidden continent. When I think of this now, here, it occurs to me, in a very particular way, where I am on the planet. It is a bit hard to explain, but it feels like a rubber band going back and forth between imagining Antarctica before my arrival, and knowing Antarctica now that I’m actually here. It is that distinct resonance of “place” in one’s soul, and as I begin to fully acknowledge my remoteness, I am ever struck by the sensation of it.

Perception of “place” changes in every moment throughout the day here, as light dissolves the edge where the earth meets the sky into a seemingly singular locus. I can look south out my window toward the horizon three hundred times a day, and each time I am led to a new place. Experiential adaptability and an active presence is key to delineating terra firma from the intense luminosity that sometimes removes the ability to perceive three dimensional space. It is impossible to abandon the constant interaction that occurs with the land here. Antarctica calls you to be its witness, requires you to accept its moods and then shows you the world anew, if you allow it. To abjure nature’s profound force here is to somehow ignore truth, which would leave you quite defeated.

I arrived at ICEPAC in about 20 minutes, having taken my time to meander and watch the now lowering sun. Joining again my colleagues and friends, I felt a real kinship with these and all the people before us who have lived on this continent. Even in my short time here, I already feel this place has pierced my core, as I know it has done to all who have spent time here.

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Bienal del Fin del Mundo

Published on 2, February, 2009 in Antarctica. 5 Comments Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , .

Left: Construction of ICEPAC Site-Specific Installation, Vesleskaervet, Antarctica, 2009. PHOTO: ITASC/Ntsikelelo Ntshengila. Right: South African Base SANAE IV, Vesleskaervet, Dronning Maud Land, Antarctica, PHOTO: ITASC/Adam Hyde

Day 11; February 2, 2009; Vesleskaervet, Dronning Maud Land, Antarctica
Average Daily Temperature: 17.24˚ F
Average Daily Wind Speed: 16.78 mph
Feels Like: -7.93˚ F

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE:

Announcing the opening of the Antarctic portion of Intemperie: the 2nd Bienal del Fin del Mundo, a collection of site specific installations produced during the project ITASC at SANAE IV (71 ° 40.433’ S 002 ° 48.700’ W) and ICEPAC (71 ° 40.433’ S 002 ° 48.700’ W) in Vesleskaervet, Dronning Maud Land, Antarctica. The exhibition focuses on weather, climate and Antarctica. The main venue of the Bienal del Fin del Mundo is in Ushuaia (Tierra del Fuego, Argentina, April 23 – May 25, 2009) with satellite exhibitions taking place at Centro Cultural Oi Futuro, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil (Jan 19 – March 1, 2009), SANAE IV, Antarctica (Feb 3 – 17 2009), and OCA, Sao Paulo, Brazil (March 7 – April 12 2009).

Exhibition Dates: February 3 – 17, 2009, 12am-12pm
Opening Reception: February 2, 8pm

Artists:
ARQZE
Erika Blumenfeld
Adam Hyde
Rebecca Mattos
Thomas Mulcaire
Siphiwe Ngwenya
Ntsikelelo Ntshingila
Amanda Rodrigues Alves
Manuel Sanfuentes
Pol Taylor

Curator:
Alfons Hug

Realized with the support of the South African National Antarctic Program, Goethe Institut and Oi Futuro, Rio de Janeiro.

Intemperie
by Alfons Hug

In Antiquity, philosophers believed that for reasons of symmetry the southern hemisphere must contain a counterweight to the landmass of the northern hemisphere. Mercator’s 16th century maps also claim the presence of a “large southern continent” (Terra Australis Incognita), which was regarded as a tropical paradise.

The intensive search for the real Antarctic during the 19th century was guided by the conviction that contact with the end of the world would unearth new insights for the human spirit. Not until 1820 did the Baltic German captain Fabian Bellingshausen (who was in Russian service) and the American seal hunter Nathaniel Palmer both finally discover the white continent at the same time.

Even so, highly respected contemporary personalities, including Edgar Allan Poe, still subscribed to the superstitious belief that there was an opening in the globe at the South Pole through which travelers could reach a civilized world, which they suspected within the Earth’s crust.

Today, 4000 scientists committed to peaceful research from all over the world (1000 in the winter) work in 80 stations scattered all over the Antarctic, which is about as big as Brazil and Europe together (almost 14 million square kilometers). The sparse tourism is still ecologically defensible – so far.

The Antarctic Treaty (1959), which was signed at the peak of the Cold War and froze all territorial demands until further notice, was an exemplary agreement which still maintains a key status in global environmental and peace policy today.

The Antarctic is therefore the only continent with no military weapons, no economic exploitation, and no land ownership; not even the plentiful mineral resources may be exploited: Utopian conditions indeed. While the rest of the world wears itself out in endless conflicts, a destructive exploitation of resources, and ownership claims of all kinds, the Antarctic, that classic no-man’s-land, has a higher calling: it belongs to no one and therefore to everyone.

Its natural cycles are certainly very closely interwoven with our own, and its fragile ecosystem reacts sensitively even to disturbances caused in other areas of the world. It functions as the Earth’s “measuring instrument.”

Although affected by the environmental sins committed by the rest of the world, the southern continent is largely still in a state of sublime innocence. It is the land before the Fall, perhaps the final great promise to mankind since the Tropics lost some of their paradisal beauty. The icy ground of this mythical region resembles an enormous archive in which the climatic history of the Earth is stored. The Antarctic is frozen time.

This zero point of culture is well suited for intellectual and artistic reflections on the world: emptiness, silence and seclusion, but also purity, clarity, peace and spirituality are some the existential categories that will be discussed in the transcendental Antarctic. The artists begin where the scientists and their measurements cannot reach, thus allowing a new and fresh perspective on this neuralgic point of the Earth.

The artists will also have to come to terms with the color white, which was regarded by the impressionists as a non-color, yet in the eyes of Kandinsky was an “insurmountable, indestructible, almost infinite cold wall,” a silence that can suddenly be understood. “It is a void that is juvenile or, more precisely, a void that is before the beginning, before birth” (Kandinsky, Concerning the Spiritual in Art).

And just as the “white cube” of the modern art galleries, in its complete neutrality, mercilessly reveals the weaknesses of a work of art, so the naked, white expanse of the Antarctic exposes the inadequacies of human activity.

Websites:
ITASC http://www.icepac.org
IPY http://www.ipy.org
The Polar Project http://www.thepolarproject.com

Photo Credits for Images at Top of Post: Left: Construction of ICEPAC Site-Specific Installation, Vesleskaervet, Antarctica, 2009. PHOTO: ITASC/Ntsikelelo Ntshengila. Right: South African Base SANAE IV, Vesleskaervet, Dronning Maud Land, Antarctica, PHOTO: ITASC/Adam Hyde

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