April 2019

The beach is lined with broken shells. Once the protective homes and exoskeletons of mollusks that resided inside, they now carpet the coastline in shattered fragments. Having been hammered by the force of the sea, they are shards of debris, afterthoughts that crunch beneath our feet when walking the shore.

Consider the pieces: each is uniquely shaped and deeply textured. Their colors are rich and varied, like brushstrokes in a painting. Each is one of a kind and a random variation, a product of the uncontrollability of nature. Taken together they tell stories of the sea.

The mysterious fields of the ocean floor, the majesty of the cresting waves, the rolling peaks and canyons, the secretive currents: All have engraved their rhythm on the shells. Blue and amber grooves line their fortress walls, architected for eternity. Yet when the waves break, so do they. The fortresses fall.

There is poetry in the ruins. Irregular and simple shapes weathered by time, the broken shells are completely natural without any pretense. The fragments fit together in harmony. There is nothing imprecise about them.

If you spend concentrated time with them, looking and looking, you start to see spirits of the ocean emerging: the midnight darkness of the depths, hazy glimpses of sky through morning fog, sun-drenched sands, and all that lives within and without.

By themselves they are broken. Brought together they become whole, a joyful and meditative narrative on the tides of time.