Upcoming project, 2024-2025
An old-fashioned, bakelite telephone is placed on a wooden table. A chair stands beside it. The table is positioned at the coastline. Passersby can take a seat at the table and listen to the sea. Together a sound artist, we will develop a composition in which ambient sounds (waves, wind), sounds of marine life, and anthropogenic sounds blend together. The composition is a mix of speculative fabulation, science fiction, and science facts (Haraway, 2016) , an imaginative comment on how anthropogenic sounds are increasingly disrupting the natural sounds of the sea, with disastrous effects on animal navigation, communication, reproduction, hearing loss, and tissue damage.
Drawing: Luuk Scheers
In my current artistic inquiry, I am deeply engaged with the sea. It's a place I find myself drawn to frequently. I particularly relish stormy days, when the biting wind and rain penetrate to my very core. There's an undeniable allure about the sea—an inexplicable connection between humans and its vast expanse. The French poet Romain Rolland aptly labels this connection the “oceanic feeling” (see Simmonds, 2006). In a letter to Freud, Rolland describes it as a sensation of boundlessness, of indivisible unity, and of eternity—a profound solidarity with the entirety of the external world. This oceanic feeling captures the overwhelming immensity we experience when gazing upon the countless waves, where the ocean extends limitlessly beyond the horizon. It's this profound connection to something greater than ourselves that Rolland sought to convey with his concept (Hermans, 2022).
Yet, beyond the sea itself, my fascination lies in the liminal space: the threshold between land and sea. It's the narrow strip of land that resists being categorized as land, barren and inhospitable to crops, seemingly futile to humans yet holding profound significance. In many ways, it mirrors the essence of art—both immensely useless and utilitarian simultaneously. Similarly, there are more of these transitional zones, often unnoticed. Consider the bedroom, symbolizing the shift from wakefulness to slumber, from consciousness to the unconscious (or preconscious). Another example is dusk: the ambiguous realm between day and night, from light to darkness, visibility to invisibility, emergence to disappearance, constraint to boundlessness, self-control to self-abandonment.
This narrow strip of land: arid, sandy, devoid of vegetation. It serves as a canvas for transformation—a place where solid ground melds with the liquid. This metamorphosis is accompanied by rituals, akin to those preceding sleep: the shedding of everyday attire for scant swimwear, perhaps accessorized with goggles or fins, and the marking of territory with an unfurled towel and scattered belongings. The message is clear: we submerge ourselves in the liquid, only to return to solid ground. The liquid state is transient: dynamic, never enduring. Liquid thinking, analogous to the philosophy of French thinker Michel Serres, resides in the midst of life's undercurrents and turbulence, embracing movement over stasis. It's a mode of thought that transcends mere rationality, intertwining with the affective—a simultaneous dance of touching and being touched.
It's through this tactile interaction that thought finds its flow, its acceleration. My assertion is that contemporary society predominantly favors terrestrial thinking—grounded and secure. Embracing the fluid, however, proves far more challenging. This is where art truly shines. Unbound by the need for solid ground or territory, art revels in life's undercurrents, its tumult, its elusiveness.
“The concept of establishing a foundation for ocean ecology seems daunting, characterized by a lack of landmarks, indistinct shores, and a shoreline that ebbs and flows unpredictably. Today, I embark on an unconventional journey—to connect with the sea. Placing my ear against the water, I'll listen to the rhythmic cadence of the waves. Some might call it deep-sea navigation, or perhaps an exploration of lateral thinking. Here, immersed in the fluid realm, I seek to rediscover my bearings, occasionally encountering fishing vessels with massive nets that aggressively scrape the seabed. Beneath the surface, I cast my line for novel ideas, akin to an intrepid explorer navigating uncharted waters, albeit with the assurance of solid ground to return to. How do we establish a framework for understanding the intricate ecology of the sea? That is the central inquiry. Water, devoid of conscious thought, challenges our understanding, rendering our thoughts turbulent and ephemeral in its powerful currents. How does one find stability in such a dynamic environment? That is the overarching question.” (Carolien Hermans, 2023)
