The sea has re-minded me that all things must pass.
As I sift these stones, palming through the inconceivable ages of geology,
I think on the small piece of Norwegian mountain that I hold glittering in my hand, carried by the vast creeping rivers of ice across the grinding flatlands, year upon year, mile upon mile, to be dropped by the melt water and then buried, unearthed and then tossed, polished and ground by a million tides until this very now, seen and grasped by a warm human hand.
Am I the first to have touched it?
I heard rumours of the the Line having vanished, my immediate thought was of Art hating barbarians, and then I remembered the joyous release of destruction, and thought it must have been some energetic, high spirited rout of carefree youthful fun.
When I arrived, I found tentative repairs of well wishers had reformed a seedling Line, and the obvious simple scattering of the sea was the cause of the Lines demise: A month of persistent northerlies must have raised up the spring tide to scatter and seethe through the high shingle.
And so I set to work again…
Sunday 13th July from 12 noon,
come along and add a stone to the line,
bring a picnic,
The bleached beached backbone of a long dead whale.
We exist in a world of stories, that shape the cultural and physical environments in which we live. A flowing conversation between what we sense, think, imagine, and do.
We draw a line on a map and declare it the edge and limit of where the waters end and the land begins. The sea, the weather and the shifting shingle have their own stories to tell.
The ebb and flood of these tales reveals the line of the living tide.