As a scientist with a genuine interest in communication, I decided to check out a session of the 2008 Melbourne Writers’ Festival called Drought: an acute absence. I went in search of insights into how the visual arts can connect non-technical audiences to the complex issues of drought or climate change.
The session was billed as a collaboration of pairs of artists and writers responding to the idea of drought. It began with the first team discussing ‘ideas of text, perception and image to explore visual thinking through multi-layered canvases’. I listen to lofty discussions on ‘philosophical drought’, field recordings of cicadas and works ‘celebrating ambiguity’.
To my horror, during the 50-minute session only two fleeting references are made to literal drought – that is, a lack of water to meet communities’ need. It’s as alienating as listening to scientists describe the latest in parameterising ice-albedo feedbacks in Earth System Models of Intermediate Complexity.
At first I am baffled – then incensed. How can the organisers justify a session on drought in modern-day Australia that fails to mention a lack of rain?!
We all know that right now Australia is under the stranglehold of the worst drought since Federation. Achingly dry conditions have now persisted for eleven years across much of southern and eastern Australia. Mighty rivers like the Murray have shrivelled to brown trickles snaking through cracked land. With paddocks reduced to dust bowls, farmers have been forced to sell stock for a pittance or buy feed to keep emaciated stock alive.
According to the national mental health body, Beyond Blue, one farmer committed suicide every four days during the 1990s under the stress of failing crops, dying livestock, mounting debt and decaying rural towns. Scientists predict that our climate is only going to get hotter and drier: that is, droughts are likely to become the new norm in vast parts of the country. Meanwhile, as our governments continue to delay making the gutsy policy decisions needed to put the brakes on global warming, a crucial part of Australian society is crumbling.
Annoyed at the wasted opportunity of the session, I head upstairs to the Ian Potter Centre – colour and creativity always cheers me up. Art is one of the ways we make sense of the world around us. At its most potent, it can be a precursor to profound shifts in public opinion.
For example, when the first images of the Earth in space were beamed back from Apollo 8 in 1968, the affect was breathtaking. Actually being able to see the beautiful blue marbled Earth floating in ink-black space irreversibly expanded our perception of our place in the cosmos. It revolutionised society’s perception of the fragility of planet Earth – our only oasis in a harsh, vast universe.
As my footsteps echo across the floorboards, calmness returns. I am soothed by the art hanging there, silently and unjustified. But soon the question that tugged me from my warm nook, out into a wintry Saturday morning resurfaces: how can art help communicate the reality of climate change?
According to Professor Ross Garnaut, leader of the federal government’s economic assessment of the impacts of climate change, if nothing is done to reduce carbon emissions, average global temperatures could rise by 5 or 6 degrees by the end of this century. A warming of just 2oC will see the colourful coral gardens of the Great Barrier Reef irreversibly bleached a ghostly white. Less than 3oC could see the extinction of more than half the world’s species.
For many of us, it’s actually hard to imagine such a diabolical future. But that’s just the challenge that the arts community are starting to tackle. ‘We are used to scientists providing the information we receive on climate change, this exhibition is unique because it starts to picture what these changes might look like’, says Linda Williams, curator of Heat – an art exhibition on climate change now on in Melbourne.
It features photographic works of shattered Antarctic ice shelves, kinetic simulations of wild weather and even a stuffed polar bear. The challenge is to help people visualise our future climate and, in turn, provoke a strong emotional response that may, eventually, catalyse change. But the question is, can we process the science fast enough for us to see it in our imaginations?
As I make my way for the door of the Ian Potter, out of the corner of my eye I see a painting that stops me dead in my tracks. Its vulnerability is disarming. It shows a distressed woman with her newborn being stretchered out of a flooded home by two men. The edge of the frayed blanket that covers her drags through the floodwaters scattered with eucalyptus branches. A bucket lies on its side, defeated by the muddy torrent. A furrow-browed woman stands anxiously at the door, her dress hitched up to avoid the inundation.
‘Flood sufferings’, painted by Aby Altson in 1890, speaks of the loss of dignity inflicted on the defenceless. Above all, it speaks of compassion: the instinctive human quality that assures me that when we grasp the suffering that lies ahead, we will act.
I leave heartened by a silent epiphany.
