This morning, I spent it outside the cave. Most of my work hours are in front of the computer, but when the tide of tasks recedes, I go out looking for something to stir me. I wander the city with my mind plugged into projects but my eyes on the life flowing beyond the walls of the studio. Like communicating vessels, I mix work with the world. I expose myself to the outside seeping into the projects I have within me, and even though it might seem like nothing’s changing, it always does—sometimes a lot, sometimes a little. Realizing it is just a matter of time.
I sit down at the Disseny Hub’s café and decide to check out the exhibition “The Ocean Speaks: New Ecologies and Economies of the Sea.” I have no idea what language the ocean will speak to me in, but the trip sounds promising: the people to my left are chatting in Russian; those to my right in Brazilian Portuguese. And me? I’ve only crossed into a different district.
I wander the city with my mind plugged into projects but my eyes on the life flowing beyond the walls of the studio. Like communicating vessels, I mix work with the world. I expose myself to the outside seeping into the projects I have within me, and even though it might seem like nothing’s changing, it always does—sometimes a lot, sometimes a little.
The exhibition dives into the effects of human activity on marine ecosystems and reflects on how Barcelona can redesign its relationship with the sea in the context of a climate crisis. I stop in front of a video showing the constant erosion caused by rising sea levels in Yorkshire’s coastal communities. On screen, you see all sorts of constructions designed to protect the shore and stop the waves from inching closer to the houses. And while I silently applaud these measures, I also realize I’ve grown older. The Ingrid from a few years ago would have thought that instead of rolling up our sleeves to build walls, we should be doing so to stop global warming. But now, call me a pessimist, I think this transformation isn’t just inevitable—it’s already leaking through the cracks in our windows while we’re busy leaking ourselves into our screens.
I dive into the metro, returning a missed call from the manager of the building where our studio is located. Just before Christmas, we had a flood, and there are still some damages to repair. When I told a plumber friend about it, he said water is the most persistent thing he knows because it climbs walls, takes on any shape, can destroy barriers, and always, always, always finds a way through. He also said water is never truly still—what looks stagnant or calm always has latent energy, a capacity to move forward and transform.
I’ll spare you the exact reasons for the leak, but the fact is, water makes its way through our ceiling more often than we’d like. It’s about one flood per year now, and while we’ve reached a point where we can laugh at how absurdly porous we are, part of me feels it’s not such a bad thing. When water seeps in, we drop the tech and lean into life: we get up from our desks, grab mops and buckets, rush to greet neighbors we don’t see the rest of the year, and remind our books and tools how ready we are to protect them. And when it’s all done, we enjoy the sight of a freshly painted wall and the comfort of feeling safe again—for a good while, at least.
Warm regards from the H6 bus,
Ingrid
