In October of 2024, I had the privilege of participating in the Arctic Circle Artist Residency. This was made possible with the generous support of the Canada Council for the Arts and The New Brunswick Arts Board.
The Arctic Circle is an expeditionary residency program where artists, scientists, architects, and educators from around the world gather to explore the high-Arctic Svalbard Archipelago and Arctic Ocean. Aboard a specialized vessel, participants engage with pressing global issues, conducting fieldwork and research that fosters interdisciplinary collaboration and professional growth. The program supports the creation and exhibition of innovative work, aiming to empower individual creativity while encouraging collaboration across disciplines.
Reading that acceptance letter brought a sense of elation I can still feel—a spark of validation, of being chosen to witness and engage with the Arctic in a way few ever will. Yet, just as quickly, that joy was tempered by the practical weight of it all, including the steep participant fee and the logistics that would follow. But the idea of turning down this opportunity was unthinkable. Determined, I spent the next few years rallying resources, navigating grant applications, and planning every detail. I wanted to arrive as prepared as possible, not just in equipment but in knowledge. I read everything I could, diving into the history, the climate, and the delicate political landscape of the Arctic.
As we set sail, I quickly realized how different the Arctic truly was from the one I'd envisioned. Expecting endless snowy plains and towering ice formations like those featured in documentaries, I was stunned by the diversity of landscapes, colours, and textures that unfolded before us. Snow and ice gave way to rich, unexpected scenes: vibrant, rust-coloured sands, patches of resilient green moss, and shorelines dotted with seaweed and shells. It was a reminder that the Arctic holds its own seasonal rhythms, as intricate and dynamic as any other place on Earth.
The light was unlike anything I’d ever seen. The sun hovered low on the horizon, casting a delicate wash of pastels over the landscape, creating an almost perpetual dawn or dusk. It painted the world in soft, hazy hues, turning the rugged terrain into something almost ethereal. I had anticipated starkness, but the Arctic revealed itself in layers of quiet beauty, each one more surprising than the last.
Sound, too, took on a new significance here. The Arctic was filled with sounds that felt almost sacred in their simplicity. The gentle lapping of waves against the hull, the crisp popping of ice, and the occasional call of a bird blended together in an unexpectedly rich soundscape. Each noise seemed amplified by the vastness around us, as though the Arctic itself was speaking. The thunderous booms of glaciers calving into the sea felt especially profound, like the land was expressing its grief; a powerful, unmistakable voice that reverberated across the fjord. These sounds lingered with me as vivid reminders of the fragile balance here, an auditory echo of the changes climate brings to this frozen landscape.
We embarked on hikes that led us across glaciers, navigating narrow crevices carved by melting ice and sometimes climbing back up after reaching the edge. Each step demanded an adaptation to the Arctic’s shifting terrain. Alongside melting glaciers, we discovered fossils imprinted with tropical leaves, traces of a prehistoric era when this land lay closer to the equator. It was surreal to imagine a lush, warm world beneath our feet, now frozen and transformed. These fossils felt like tangible links to the Earth's ancient history and the immense changes this landscape has undergone over millions of years.
Encounters with wildlife brought a sense of intimacy I hadn’t anticipated. The Arctic’s inhabitants seemed as curious about us as we were about them, as though we shared a rare connection in this remote, untamed place. Each encounter felt sacred, a reminder that, even here, life finds a way to thrive. The walruses, especially, were a delightful surprise. Hauled out on land, they nudged each other playfully with their tusks, sometimes rolling on top of one another in a slow, lumbering show of companionship. I hadn’t realized they were such social creatures, and watching them interact felt like witnessing a private, joyful ritual. Their curiosity and gentle antics, paired with the inquisitiveness of other wildlife, mirrored our own sense of wonder, binding us, however briefly, to the wildness around us.
Perhaps the most surprising experience was the polar dip. I braced myself for the frigid water, expecting it to be more a test of endurance than anything else. But the moment I plunged in I was enveloped by the Arctic’s embrace, a sensation of pins and needles electrified my skin, and instead of discomfort, I felt exhilaration. Emerging, I was filled with an overwhelming desire for more, eager to relive the energizing sensation those icy waters had sparked within me.
Each day brought a new shore to explore, and the anticipation felt like Christmas morning. One of my most unforgettable moments was scaling the mast and seeing the Arctic spread below from that unique vantage point. Suspended over the sea, with the landscape stretching endlessly in every direction, I felt both incredibly small and profoundly connected.
I had hoped to see a polar bear, yet they remained elusive. However, we did come across a polar bear skull, pieces of vertebrae, and other bones. This was a quiet reminder of the delicate balance this ecosystem and the creatures dwelling just beyond our view experience in a habitat that continues to shrink. Looking back, I can’t help but wish I’d had more time to be fully immersed in this environment. Yet I recognize the weight of returning, and why people feel drawn back to this region despite the environmental cost. The Arctic holds a part of me I wasn’t expecting to leave behind.
It’s a place where past and future meet reminding me of our shared responsibility. It’s a call to consider our actions more deeply, knowing that every decision we make today leaves a mark on tomorrow.
Experiencing the Arctic Circle is one thing, but experiencing it with a group of international artists who share your sense of wonder is something else entirely. Together, we watched as the Arctic revealed itself with its vast pastel skies, the quiet transition to polar night, the northern lights dancing like whispers in the dark. Each encounter with wildlife felt like a gift, and I’m still dreaming about it all.
Returning home was an adjustment. I still catch myself looking up at the night sky expectantly.
The sound of leaves rustling in the wind is a reminder of the unbroken silence of early mornings in Longyearbyen, where the town lay quiet under an open sky, untouched by the presence of trees. Living beyond the reach of everyday life felt like stepping into another world, where nature held us in its quiet embrace.
I understand now why people come here and choose to stay, and I’m especially grateful to our guides and crew who shared this special place with us and kept us safe along the way.
Since returning from the Arctic, I've found myself in a reflective space, still trying to fully process the experience. I feel a weight to ensure that what I create and share will inspire others to see the Arctic’s fragility and the need to safeguard it for future generations. It’s as though I’ve been entrusted with a piece of the Arctic’s story, carrying it forward with the hope that it sparks a similar sense of care in others to preserve these frozen worlds. Honouring a place visibly impacted by forces beyond its control, I hope to be a voice for these landscapes who can’t speak for themselves.
While my work has long been rooted in nature, minimalism, and a life lived by the sea, this deeper understanding of the Arctic has inspired me to take my approach further. As a visual multidisciplinary artist working primarily in ceramics, I am increasingly committed to sustainable practices, incorporating foraged materials and reclaiming scraps from previous projects.
Through my research, I became immersed in the Arctic’s culture and philosophies, and this knowledge profoundly shifted my perspective. I was moved by the Arctic communities' relationship with the land and their approach to life in harmony with nature’s cycles. This inspired me to go beyond foraging and aim to work exclusively with natural materials that, over time, will return to the earth, embodying a full-circle approach to my creative process. This intention has become a guiding principle for me. Nature itself is not only my muse but also the foundation of my process, reminding me that every decision we make today leaves a mark on tomorrow.
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