Beyond the mist that veils the distant pole
the waters are hid as with stone and
the face of the deep is frozen. A sail,
a blown white leaf, hangs in the blue like an emblem
and the hills lie all around, chin upon hand.
From the poem Shark by Margaret Scott
River of Verse: A Tasmanian Journey, 1800-2004
Ed. Helen Gee, Pub. Black River Press Tasmania 2004
Randomly opening a book this morning, I find another Antarctic view. I love coincidences, and this is one that connects with yesterday’s workshop.
Yesterday we discussed perception, how we tend to see what we’re looking for rather than what is actually in front of us. Christine McMillan drove me home afterwards and along the way we talked about how we could position ourselves in many ways to see an artwork differently. We could come close, step back away, lie down and look up, raise ourselves high and peer down. Each time we would see the same thing from different perspectives. Each time, we might see more of what the artist intended us to see, or ask ourselves more questions about what we think we see. Would we see a different artwork every time?
Scott’s poem Shark describes how an ancient “great white pointer” from the Southern Ocean is beached and exploited by men. In the last lines it presents us with a view of Antarctica from a Tasmanian landscape. I found it changed with different meanings. The hills that “lie all around, chin upon hand” can be read in different ways. Do they care about the “distant pole” and creatures from the Southern Ocean surrounding it? The hills could well reflect the disregard of men who inhabit them. They could also express concern, contemplating through their land’s own eye, from the perspective of the land itself. Seeing both views creates a tension that enlivens and deepens my reading.