Soon We May Cross (ongoing)
In 2021, the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists set its Doomsday Clock to 100 seconds to midnight—the closest it has ever been to the moment mankind meets a catastrophic end of its own making. Nuclear war, climate change, disruptive technologies, and now Covid, have made the tick of the clock impossible to ignore.
For me, that existential threat cuts deep, like the winter wind off the Ipswich River where I live. Doom lurks here on the banks, as the old oaks crash into the mud and ever-higher tides swallow the marsh. I watch it all from our kitchen window. And worry. What will happen to this beautiful and often bleak place I call home? And to us?
That ominous feeling is at the heart of these pictures. They are fairy tales of a sort, where strange things happen and golden light beckons. In some, I force myself to face fear: birds make me shudder, but here is one, no bigger than a baby’s fist, winging like a giant over the marsh toward me. Alone and small on a vast hill, I cover my eyes before marching downward—to meet what? Through windows, I can see the brightness of the world beyond—fall glowing red, a sliver of snow in moonlight—but vines tangle the house. How will I ever get out?
We are on the threshold of midnight, and soon we may cross. I can tell myself stories, but I’m not sure they’ll save me.