Climate Change Photo Awardee
Maximilian Owre, PhD, Executive Director for Carolina Public Humanities at UNC-Chapel Hill was kind enough to congratulate me on my photograph “Bared Roots.” A panel of judges at peer institution Pitt County Community College reviewed photographs that were submitted to the CPH-sponsored photo competition that accompanied the Exhibit at The College of the Albemarle—Dare (COA) in Manteo, North Carolina: Snapshot: Climate. Photos from Southern Cultures.
My photograph was chosen as the second-place winner in the Community section of the CPH competition; it was printed and framed for inclusion in the Snapshot: Climate Exhibit at the College of the Albemarle-Dare Professional Arts Building this past March 2024.
Below is the essay I wrote and submitted along with the photograph. It was published alongside the photograph.
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When you live on an island, you are surrounded by beaches. Some are rocky, some are sandy, others are grassy with thick layers of sediment. But for those who only seek out sunny beaches with stretches of pristine sand, it might be strange or unusual to consider the beaches around Roanoke Island as a place of respite. But that is what they are to residents and visitors. As an artist, I derive inspiration largely from being out in nature. And I seek out the uncrowded beaches strewn with fallen trees. They are places to run wild. And wild they are, and unstable. Storms come in and the currents change and the landscape is forever altered.
Behind Fort Raleigh there is a marker yards into the water of the Roanoke Sound where possibly the Lost Colony first settled. Storms have carved away the side of the island year after year. And while it seems as though 427 years is a long time for the erosion to occur, for our planet it is a blip on its timeline. It is only a fraction of time if you consider that the oldest city in Europe is now dated to 6000 BCE. This island is only a moment in time, a snapshot. And it is changing, forever altered, by whatever is thrown at it, with precious little we can do about it.
Unnoticeable, slow change is comforting, but the news is now filled with sudden, catastrophic change. Warmer ocean temperatures breeds stronger storms. Sea surges are higher and take longer to recede. Sea water laden with salt goes deeper inland killing trees that can’t adapt to the higher salt levels. Land is increasingly left barren or reclaimed by the water. Only the most aggressive and hardy grasses, vines, and shrubs proliferate. We lean on them to protect our coastline as the trees succumb. We are trying to slow what is inevitable and seek comfort in thinking these soft barriers will somehow hold back the sea and its strength.
The evidence of sudden, catastrophic change can be seen on walks behind the island. Trees that took decades to grow tall safely from the brackish water are fallen and bone white. There are sharp drop offs where trails used to meander down to a beach. A cemetery grows increasingly at risk of falling into the sound. Concrete and pipes from structures that seemed to be solid now show as broken pieces, jutting out sharp angles out of the water. Beaches are gone where generations before, residents of the island could ride their horses around, an activity that is impossible now within the last hundred years.
Our future hangs in the balance as we teeter on the edge. We wonder what the land will be left and what will it be like for our children and grandchildren and great grandchildren, even while builders continue to arrogantly build and promote homes and business along our coastlines.
