Skating to the Edge
This story is about disappearing boundaries, structure and open space.
Winter in the northern climates has a way of turning ordinary people into philosophers. Snow reduces the landscape to black and white, warm clothes trump fashion, and conversations turn to basic survival needs: keeping warm, making do with less sunlight, dreaming about the summer garden. The cold drives us indoors and inside our selves.
The winter day that I skated alone on the ocean forever changed my perspective on the rest of the world. One of the village hunters had gotten a seal out at the edge of the ice and had said it was less than a mile out. I heard that there were some really interesting ice formations there at the edge. Since it was spring, the several more hours of daylight had begun to warm the air. So I tied on my skates and set out.
There was a fog over the village that day and as it moved in, the landscape was separated into layers of distance: near, far, farther. The fog set up an order to the landscape that I would not otherwise have noticed.
I skated west from the village, over the frozen Bering Sea. Ocean ice is inconsistent so I was enjoying the patches of smoother ice, tiptoeing over the rough places, and flat walking where the snow hadn’t blown free. Once in a while I’d chance on a glassy spot and practice a few twirls. This wasn’t like rink skating, always perfectly smooth and predictable, This was the frozen ocean and you take you take it as it comes, make the most of your chances.
It wasn’t long before I skated across the drag trail where the hunters had pulled their load across the ice. The farther out I skated, the more I focused on the ice and how my skates traveled across it. The ice directed my skating and the thick fog forced me to focus on my immediate surroundings. In the fog I saw less and less, until it was just me and my skates on the ice.
I crossed the drag trail again and noticed a few drops of bright red blood on the hard white ice and I stopped then, to take a look around. The fog had completely closed in around me. I couldn’t see much more than 20 or 30 feet in front of me. Turning around I realized that I couldn’t see the shoreline, the village had disappeared, there was no horizon line anywhere. Engrossed in the journey, I had skated my way into a colorless void.
The environment I knew by sight, touch, sound, smell was gone as I realized I couldn’t use those reference tools. I was suddenly very aware of my cold feet, my wet mittens, my hungry stomach. I was completely alone, with no one in sight, no sound, not even the sound of wind. Absolutely alone. I skated a few steps crossing the drag trail and realized I had no idea which way was towards the village and which way went to the edge of the ice and the open Bering Sea. A few more strides gave me my answer: there were those fantastic, bizarre shapes of the ice that had cracked and bunched up along the edge. In the fog they were absolutely surreal.
The awareness that I was so absolutely alone was exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. Sometimes the practice of artworking can take you to that place where you are so overwhelmed by a certain awareness. It's a kind of meditative state, when reference points disappear and structure dissolves and you are left at the edge, taking a chance at the direction you will take.
Winter in the northern climates has a way of turning ordinary people into philosophers. Snow reduces the landscape to black and white, warm clothes trump fashion, and conversations turn to basic survival needs: keeping warm, making do with less sunlight, dreaming about the summer garden. The cold drives us indoors and inside our selves.
The winter day that I skated alone on the ocean forever changed my perspective on the rest of the world. One of the village hunters had gotten a seal out at the edge of the ice and had said it was less than a mile out. I heard that there were some really interesting ice formations there at the edge. Since it was spring, the several more hours of daylight had begun to warm the air. So I tied on my skates and set out.
There was a fog over the village that day and as it moved in, the landscape was separated into layers of distance: near, far, farther. The fog set up an order to the landscape that I would not otherwise have noticed.
I skated west from the village, over the frozen Bering Sea. Ocean ice is inconsistent so I was enjoying the patches of smoother ice, tiptoeing over the rough places, and flat walking where the snow hadn’t blown free. Once in a while I’d chance on a glassy spot and practice a few twirls. This wasn’t like rink skating, always perfectly smooth and predictable, This was the frozen ocean and you take you take it as it comes, make the most of your chances.
It wasn’t long before I skated across the drag trail where the hunters had pulled their load across the ice. The farther out I skated, the more I focused on the ice and how my skates traveled across it. The ice directed my skating and the thick fog forced me to focus on my immediate surroundings. In the fog I saw less and less, until it was just me and my skates on the ice.
I crossed the drag trail again and noticed a few drops of bright red blood on the hard white ice and I stopped then, to take a look around. The fog had completely closed in around me. I couldn’t see much more than 20 or 30 feet in front of me. Turning around I realized that I couldn’t see the shoreline, the village had disappeared, there was no horizon line anywhere. Engrossed in the journey, I had skated my way into a colorless void.
The environment I knew by sight, touch, sound, smell was gone as I realized I couldn’t use those reference tools. I was suddenly very aware of my cold feet, my wet mittens, my hungry stomach. I was completely alone, with no one in sight, no sound, not even the sound of wind. Absolutely alone. I skated a few steps crossing the drag trail and realized I had no idea which way was towards the village and which way went to the edge of the ice and the open Bering Sea. A few more strides gave me my answer: there were those fantastic, bizarre shapes of the ice that had cracked and bunched up along the edge. In the fog they were absolutely surreal.
The awareness that I was so absolutely alone was exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. Sometimes the practice of artworking can take you to that place where you are so overwhelmed by a certain awareness. It's a kind of meditative state, when reference points disappear and structure dissolves and you are left at the edge, taking a chance at the direction you will take.
