Category: Artist

My trip started in Turku, where I took a two-hour ferry to Seili Island. This provided a smooth start to the upcoming Godzilla trip and the adventures ahead. On the ferry, I also met Rachael Allain, a co-artist from the UK who was also taking part in the Godzilla project.

At Seili, we participated in Herring Day, co-organized by the Archipelago Research Institute and CAA Contemporary Art Archipelago. During the event, we learned about the extensive research on herrings that dates back to the early 1980s. We learned that herring and the entire ecosystem of the Baltic Sea are highly dependent on the salinity of the seawater. In short, when there is less salt, herrings grow smaller, which affects the entire ecosystem—from birds to sea mammals, and ultimately to us humans. It is predicted that, due to climate change, the Baltic Sea will gradually become warmer and less saline than before.

We also met with other Godzilla artists: Sergio Castrillón, Siún Carden, Minna Henriksson, and Ragnar Elnyg. We had the pleasure of enjoying the magnificent performances of Sergio Castrillón and Ragnar Elnyg. The evening at Seili concluded with a magical touch when CAA curator Taru Elfving took us to visit the old 17th-century church of Seili and to watch the beautiful sunset from the highest point of the island.

After Seili, we headed straight to Hanko Harbour to seek shelter from the approaching storm and heavy winds. While Godzilla was tightly moored in the harbour, we spent three days at the nearby Tvärminne Research Station. Tvärminne is a zoological research station maintained and operated by the University of Helsinki. In the research station it was time to roll our sleeves and get to work. At Tvärminne and in the close by island I managed to film and record underwater videos and sounds. I was specifically interested in underwater noise pollution originating from boats and ships. The close proximity of Syndalen military base and passing patrol boats provided more than I had expected.

My own research is divided into two areas. The first focuses on material studies, where I explore seaweed-based bioplastics with the intention of using them as building materials for my work. This approach is rooted in a “leave-no-trace” mentality, aiming to create art with minimal ecological impact. I am also committed to the idea that the materials I use are “edible”, meaning that everything is both non-toxic and compostable. The second part of my research centers on creating art, involving a conceptual approach to listening and interpreting the memory embedded in the material. 

I learned that the wellbeing of herrings is closely tied to the health of seaweeds. As the Baltic Sea gets warmer and its salinity decreases, the growth of seaweeds is also affected. Another crucial element in this puzzle is the sustainable harvesting of seaweeds. The seaweed I’m currently focusing on in my research is a red seaweed (Furcellaria lumbricalis), which is also found in Finnish waters. In Danish waters, commercial overuse and extensive harvesting in the mid-20th century almost wiped out the entire species. In recent years, more sustainable harvesting methods and regulations have been implemented to prevent further overexploitation. This serves as a reminder that we shouldn’t repeat the same mistakes with underwater forests that we’ve made with our terrestrial forests.

Countless discussions with Tvärminne researchers, often while sitting in the sauna (of course), sparked many new ideas and provided valuable information about the various organisms and the current state of the Baltic Sea. I feel that by exchanging ideas and discussing them, we reached a mutual understanding that we are all working towards the same goal: to better understand the sea and make the Baltic Sea livable for future generations.

The first scientific illustration of prehistoric times was painted 2 centuries ago. This watercolor represents an aquarium-like view of an epic battle between different dinosaur-like marine species living 200 millions years ago. Looking at it gives you an impression that competition and Jurassic Park aesthetics are inherent features of planet Earth.

But dinosaurs were not the first creatures inhabiting our planet. Much earlier, there were cyanobacteria, the inventors of photosynthesis. They kick-started life on Earth and filled the atmosphere with oxygen, which led to the mass extinction of early life forms and paved the way to the evolution of future ones. What would a painting depicting life on Earth 3 billion years ago would look like?

The answer is quite straight forward. It would actually represent a large body of water covered with cyanobacterial blooms of blue green algae. It is a familiar view to those who have seen the ocean, sea or lake polluted with fertilizers during warm days. I saw that image this summer sailing with Godzilla through the Baltic Sea, from Visby to Stockholm. 

Hugged by the ring of an undisturbed horizon, it felt that our boat was stuck in one place and that only water with its rhythmic waves moved underneath. Stripes of tiny particles of blue green algae of various intensities resembled light green-yellowish glitter. Like tiny stars hanging throughout the volume of entire dark waters, at least as deep and far as I could see. I was staring at them and passing through their hypnotic patterns. They had a surprisingly strong and vivid presence: microscopic organisms counted in nautical miles.

It made me think of Solaris and the ocean depicted in this scifi book by Stanislaw Lem: a vast, sentient entity, covering most of that distant planet. It was confusing for result-driven astronauts and scientists: it was silent but active; it didn’t want to build cities or flying machines; it didn’t try to reduce distances, nor was it concerned with interplanetary conquest. It was only busy with being and transforming itself on and on. Humans tried desperately to communicate with it, without much success. The more they tried the more it revealed their own limitations, fears, regrets, and desires. It was a mirror, reflecting the internal landscapes of the humans who encountered it. The scientists were asking one another helplessly: “How do you expect to communicate with the ocean, when you can’t even understand one another?”

Maybe being a sailor doesn’t differ that much from being an astronaut. What do you see when you look in your own reflection in the fertilized-polluted waters covered with cyanobacteria? What if the overgrowth of these bacteria in the oceans, including Baltic Sea, is not a curse but a message?

I will delve deeper into that reflection in my upcoming work “Invisible Colonies”, a speculative documentary film that tells a new history of humanity from an astronomic and microscopic perspective. The premier is planned in late 2025 and it will include footage shot during my time aboard Godzilla.

When I was little, we had a book called ‘Masterpieces of Russian Painting’, which I loved to look through. On our first day on the boat, when we went out to the open sea, I couldn’t understand for a long time what this situation, which was so new to me, reminded me of. And then I realised that I was inside a painting. A painting from my childhood, from that very book. It was called ‘In the Blue Expanse’, and its author was the artist Rylov.

In this painting, I found myself every time we went out to sea. In the first days, I was simply there, sitting on the boat, listening to the wind, smelling the air. I hardly talked to anyone, was alone, and didn’t think about anything. Such a state and way of spending time are rare, and it felt very unusual. Gradually, I began to come out of it. I had a large textile project with me, which I am currently working on. I am glad I completed one of its parts during our boat trip. Our final destination was the island of Gotland, where we will have an exhibition next month. 

I brought five flags with me for it, which I sewed myself. We hoisted a new flag on the mast daily, and it was great. Previously, these flags had been displayed in exhibitions, and finally, for the first time, they were used for their intended purpose. I looked at them and rejoiced like a child. Before embarking on the journey, I was slightly afraid — my relationship with water is complicated. Sometimes, I am afraid to go into the water, fearful of the depth of the current and the waves. I didn’t know what it would be like to sail and not see the shore, with only the sea around. My worries were in vain — the sea accepted me. I felt no anxiety, only gentle rocking when we went ashore. I would like to sail more. I thought one week was a lot, but it was very little.

Godzilla

I was always afraid of water. Sometimes I have nightmares about drowning. In this repetitive dream, I’m trying to stay on the surface, floating on something not meant for water, such as a sledge. The sledge is drowning, and I see how it disappears in the darkness. I am afraid of sharks. This fear is absurd, as I fear them even in the lake or river. It is rather an abstract fear of something unknown and wild in the deepness below me. Sometimes, when travelling on ferries in a cabin below the waterline, I can’t fall asleep because of the fear. Lying on my bed with eyes open and with ears catching all the sounds behind the metal walls separating me from the sea.

Therefore, I was a bit anxious about joining the ‘Imagining Godzilla’. But surprisingly, during the week of sailing, I felt comfortable. I relied on the Godzilla boat and the physics of sailing. The excitement of adventure didn’t leave a space for my fear. I was lying on the net stretched above the water, watching the flow under the deck, and felt confident and protected.

Travelling by water is one of the most ancient ways of travelling, but I was born far from the sea, and sailing was unfamiliar to me. However, my home place – Karelia, sometimes called ”The country of lakes” is the land of fishermen. Any settlement in Karelia is placed along the shore of a lake or a river. When I moved to St.Petersburg, I was shocked to come across some settlements without water nearby. Such places felt like houses without windows.

I was brought to the Godzilla boat by my project in which I’m studying the fate of the Ingrian Finns, the national minority I’m part of, who used to live in Ingria, the historical area between Narva and St.Petersburg. We were repressed by the Soviets, occupied by Germans, shipped to Hanko harbour from Klooga concentration camps by Finns and deported to the USSR at the end of the war to end up in exile or even in prison camps. But some of us had escaped to Sweden. I heard some of my relatives did the same. But we lost connection. In 2022 in Sweden, I met Anna Monahof, the Ingrian-Swedish writer whose family avoided deportation by escaping to Sweden by the sea. They were smuggled on the fisherman’s boat but were cached by a storm. They arrived at an unfamiliar shore and feared it might be Estonia. If it were so, they would be caught by Soviet authorities. The Swedish box of matches found on the shore was a happy sign that they had reached Sweden.

It was conceptually essential for me to approach the Gotland shore on a sailing boat. During the stay on the island I discovered that the Soviet refugees played a considerable role in Gotland’s history, and many people were involved in the refugee evacuation. We visited the monument for the refugees from the Soviet Union. Latvians and Estonians installed it in memory of those who were helping to escape from the USSR to Gotland. The monument is the actual metal green-painted boat that was used for smuggling people over the border. It is impossible to imagine how they managed to get over the sea on such small boats. There is an inevitable parallel with the situation on the Mediterranean Sea and Lesbos Island with the refugees from the African continent. But the fate of survivors in Sweden is better than those of Africans on the coast of Greece. The memorial plaques installed near the boat thank Gotland on behalf of Estonian and Latvian escapers. On the other shore, in Latvian Mazirbe, the so-called boat cemetery is situated. The Soviets destroyed the boats during the occupation to prevent people from escaping abroad. I met one person on Gotland who told me the story of his neighbour who was smuggling people from the Soviet shore. They would send balloons with messages from Gotland to the Soviet side. The message contained the time and the place of evacuation. Then they would cross the sea, and meet people waiting on the shore. They smuggled many people this way, but one day, his team was caught by Soviet guards. He was lucky as he had to cancel the trip at the last minute because his wife was giving birth.

Sailing across the Baltic Sea is not just an exciting adventure but an alternative fate of my family. My grandfather recalled how at the end of WWII, their entire family was sitting around the table in Lohja, Finland deciding whether to obey and come back to the Soviets or dare to escape to Sweden. Their father suggested to vote. They voted to come back home. However, they were doomed to never return home again. All the Ingrians were gathered in the transition camps in Oitti, loaded on the cargo train and sent to Vyborg. After that, instead of going back to St.Petersburg and their home village, they were sent to Siberia, Yaroslavl Oblast, Yakutia and other remote places. They were considered politically unreliable by Soviet officials and were never allowed to live closer than 100 kilometres to the big cities. This is how I ended up being born in Soviet Karelia. Our family’s fate would be totally different if they would take different decision that day. That’s why, when meeting writer Anna Monahof whose family had taken a risk and reached Sweden in 1945, I considered her life story an alternative path for us. Travelling on the Godzilla boat helped me to bring these collective memories of Ingrians to life.

I have always been fascinated by borders, but borders on water are special. The border is somewhere far, but at the same time, it is right here, on the shore. The other shore is unreachable, but only the vast emptiness of the sea separates you from it. When I think about far distances by land, it’s discontinuous. There are cities, forests, lakes and rivers, fields and villages between me and the destination. But when standing on the shore and looking at the horizon, I feel that there is only one step between me and the place behind the sea; it’s the sea itself.

During our visit to Fårö island, we were standing on the shore, and Saara mentioned that the sea there looked like an ocean, as if it had no limits. I realised that after the sailing trip on the Godzilla, I felt the opposite – the sea did not feel big enough anymore. A sea for me was always the territory of the unknown but after crossing it on the boat, I learned there is land on the other side, even if it is invisible at the moment. The sea is not a mystical and uncrossable void for me anymore. I can imagine walking by water to the other shore. Before the trip, the sea was, for me, an empty space opposite to the solid matter of the land which you could step on. This binary opposition is gone. Now the sea, for me, is also a matter. Like an ocean from the Solaris by Stanislav Lem, this matter has its own agency and can let you cross it or block your path, but it is not an empty indifferent space anymore – the sea is another land.

Random thoughts from the journey so far

“This too will pass”

An ancient saying that helps with seasickness and hours of sailing as a passenger in the dark and rolling Baltic Sea.

After this journey lasting over a few days and nights I’m thinking about things with a different focus, things like peeing, pooing and vomiting. But also more abstract things like space to move about, to sleep to make food…

We (humans) don’t own things anymore than they own us. This goes for ideas and concepts as well as objects. This level of thing-ness is appealing to my current mindset.

We borrow from the planet and owe a debt for this loan. Life is in this sense a transaction. A continuous flow of materials and energies across space and time. Of course the planet also must benefit from our existence too. Are humans perhaps permitted some interest on their investment? 

I wonder what the balance in my account?

I lie on a rock and gradually realize I am on the ants’ path. Three different spiders visit my towel. They climb over me, tickle, and bother me. A green shiny beetle is perched in the middle of the towel when I return from a bush pee. I am in their way.

The sun is burning hot. Blue-green algae have already been detected in the capital region, the warm early summer hastened its development. Thanks to Godzilla, I have spent more hours at sea in a few days than in years. The highlights of childhood summers were a couple of weeks of sea trips to the archipelago, especially to islands that were uninhabited by human. It was there that my collecting began, and continues to this day. The most important treasures are algae, bones, and other parts of dead creatures, such as dragonfly wings, etc. Various kinds of trash have also joined the collection.

I have been trying to find a seal skull for my collection. At the same time, I started picking up trash. I didn’t find the skull, and at some point, I forgot about it entirely. I moved from trash to trash. Eventually, I had a bag full of plastic collected from one shore of Örö. The collector in me was thrilled. I found.

I move the trash from place A to place B and hope it has some meaning. I am tempted to go collect more trash. An oystercatcher yelled at me and clearly circled its nest as I waddled on the shore rocks. Maybe my collecting will ultimately have a positive impact on the oystercatcher pair and their potential chicks. 

The sea continues to swell as I head back to the city.

I must go collect more trash.

Anna Pekkala in the bushes of Örö, June 27th 2024