This large Charcoal drawing explores our out of balance relationship to fire. Oil rigs are guarded by paranoid nuclear submarines pumping out sonar so loud it burst the ears of whales who sink deep into layers of time. Raping drills pierce the resting place of ancestors whilst a stream of moths burns throughout the night attracted by the flare of the oil rigs.

The fire has become out of balance with the ice. We are out of balance with fire. Out of control, utterly dependant on black black oil. The belly of the mother is being raped with razor edged drills. Cutting into her womb to drink in the liquid that gives illusion of life. Oil rigs are being guarded by nuclear submarines that were forged by a masculinity turned inwards to the point of self-destruction. The oceans are noisy, sonar blasts the sea in a paranoid fight that is out of sight and out mind, as nuclear submarines play cat and mouse and the oil industry blast powerful sonar into the rocks.

The humpback whales are migrating, their yearly route since time began. Below are their ancestors, now pumped as oil. Grave of lives that never got to tell their story. Pressure burst. Blood. The whales cannot function or communicate in the nuclear submarine oil industry madness cacophony of deafening sonar.
Fire burns from rigs full of lone caged men. Gazing at the moths as they meet their fiery grave.