In the run-up to this year’s Venice Biennale, where I’ll present Where Once the Waters, I’ve been reflecting on my art practice. There’s a line that runs through everything I work on, connecting one project to the next. There are physical lines, too – waterlines, coastlines, horizons.
I spent my time at Edinburgh College of Art (2006 – 2010) immersed in objects, items I’d found at junk yards or in skips, fascinated by traces of past function, past lives. Towards the end of my studies, I laid out the foundations for a painting technique which I’m still developing today, one which might allow my marks to converse with the marks of unknown others. I’ve always considered how my audience might experience my artwork – so I choose relatable, recognisable objects. For me, it’s always been about letting people in.
After art school, I went to my city’s twin city, Florence, on a Royal Scottish Academy scholarship. I continued to work in this way, transforming my finds. Though now I was sourcing items at flea and antique markets. I found Florence impossible to resist. It’s a city which inspires deep feeling – infuriation in busy summer months, contented joy most of the rest of the time. In late Autumn the rain comes, every year without fail.
It’s around this time that the Arno threatens to burst its banks, as it has done many times before. In November of 1966, the city experienced one of the worst floods in its history. Evidence of that inundation lives on in the city today, etched into plaques well above head height. In hidden brickwork, oily perimeter lines remain, from where some “zealous citizen” (as put by historian Giles Waterfield) hasn’t cleaned.
As someone drawn to such traces – wont to explore all things water-related – the history of the 1966 flood soon became the focus of my artwork. I created works re-imagining the inundation, using those lines etched into plaques as my guide. Perimetri Perduti (perimeters lost) aimed to illustrate the changed shape and lost boundaries of the flooded city. By way of painting, writing and the eventual production of a book, the project drew contrasts with contemporary examples of environmental extremes, whilst also discussing the lost sense of place the city’s residents experienced. The flood became a symbol in my artwork, a tool to describe contemporary episodes of flooding or extreme weather. It could be read today as a warning, one which applies to cities the world over, particularly those with a river running through, or positioned on the coast.
As my explorations into environmental themes deepened, Florence took me to Venice. Here, floodlines exist too. On plaques, but also around the wetted perimeter of every canal. A green algae describes the level which water rests at today, its highest point running flush with the bases of cropped porte d'acqua.
Venice was built to seamlessly align with the water. Excluding episodes of aqua alta, its buildings were designed in harmony with typical fluctuations in high and low tide. As the city sinks, and sea level has gradually crept higher, buildings have been adapted. Doors have been cropped, made into gates, or sealed; brickwork has been reinforced, inhabitants moved both up and out. We can trace Venice’s rising water clearly across time.
Since the beginning of the last century, the level of our World Ocean has been rising. Ever since we turned to fossil fuels, in fact, our planet’s excess warmth has been stored in the ocean, causing thermal expansion. By now, we’re almost all aware of this phenomenon. Not widely reported, however, is that the rate of sea-rise differs significantly from place to place. This will be the principal focus of Where Once the Waters…
