These are fascinating sculptures done by Robert Cannon . He calls the work Terraform Sculpture. TERRAFORM (literally, “Earth-shaping”) the process of deliberate modification of the atmosphere, temperature, surface topography or ecology to be similar to those of Earth to make it habitable by humans. While in Robert’s case, he uses concrete and mosses with most of his creations.
so i’ve been sketching again…
Windir - Svartesmeden Og Lundamyrstrollet
Off Arntnor, 1999
An incredible piece of epic and melancholic black metal.
Mogwai - Remurdered
Pacific Giant Octopus (Octopus dofleini) and diver, Quadra Island, British Columbia, Canada
I love Debauchery! :D
Debauchery - Demonslayer
'Like Being in Prison with a Salary': The Secret World of the Shipping Industry
The following is the opening chapter of Rose George’s new book, Ninety Percent of Everything. Our thanks to the author for sharing it with the Longreads community.
Friday. No sensible sailor goes to sea on the day of the Crucifixion or the journey will be followed by ill-will and malice. So here I am on a Friday in June, looking up at a giant ship that will carry me from this southern English port of Felixstowe to Singapore, for five weeks and 9,288 nautical miles through the pillars of Hercules, pirate waters, and weather. I stop at the bottom of the ship’s gangway, waiting for an escort and stilled and awed by the immensity of this thing, much of her the color of a summer-day sky, so blue; her bottom is painted dull red, her name—Maersk Kendal—written large on her side.
There is such busyness around me. Everything in a modern container port is enormous, overwhelming, crushing. Kendal, of course, but also the thundering trucks, the giant boxes in many colors, the massive gantry cranes that straddle the quay, reaching up ten stories and over to ships that stretch three football pitches in length. There are hardly any humans to be seen. When the journalist Henry Mayhew visited London’s docks in 1849, he found “decayed and bankrupt master butchers, master bakers, publicans, grocers, old soldiers, old sailors, Polish refugees, broken-down gentlemen, discharged lawyers’ clerks, suspended Government clerks, almsmen, pensioners, servants, thieves.” They have long since gone. This is a Terminator terminal, a place where humans are hidden in crane or truck cabs, where everything is clamorous machines.
It took me three train journeys to reach Felixstowe from my northern English home. On one train, where no seats were to be had, I swayed in the vestibule with two men wearing the uniform of a rail freight company. I’m about to leave on a freighter, I said, but a ship. They looked bewildered. A ship? they said. “Why on earth do you want to go to sea?”
Why on earth.