Jackie & Shadow
The Public Observatory: How Wildlife Cams Turn Nature Into Civic Ritual. In an age when public squares have thinned and institutions feel distant, a curious new gathering place has emerged: the wildlife livestream. The Friends of Big Bear Valley eagle cam is one of the clearest examples—a digital clearing where thousands assemble not for debate or spectacle, but to watch two birds named Jackie and Shadow rearrange sticks, brace against storms, and negotiate the quiet politics of a shared nest. What makes these streams civic isn’t just the audience size. It’s the collective posture they invite. People tune in with the same attentiveness once reserved for eclipses, parades, or the first snowfall of the year. The nest becomes a kind of public observatory, a place where strangers gather to witness something larger than themselves: the choreography of light and shadow across a living architecture. Jackie, with her bright, declarative presence, often stands in the open—an emblem of the seen world. Shadow, true to his name, shapes the scene by contrast, defining form through absence, contour, and negative space. Together they enact a natural chiaroscuro that feels almost civic in its rhythm: a reminder that public life is built not only on what we illuminate, but on what we allow to remain quiet, sheltered, or unseen. In this way, wildlife cams offer a rare kind of democratic intimacy. They ask nothing, sell nothing, demand no allegiance. They simply hold open a window where people can gather, observe, and—if only for a moment—experience the world as a shared inheritance rather than a contested territory. The nest becomes a commons. The camera becomes a civic instrument. And people across the planet become a temporary public, drawn into the serenity that arises from fascinated observation—by watching, and by listening.
2016, Fire and Rain Logo
Pop pop Dazzle by Everyday
Abstracts of Light and Shadows presents: Listen—a découpé visual narrative on YouTube. It’s a look back to glimpse the unknown ahead, built through a method I first encountered at the Art Gallery of Alberta. There, I learned to interlace recent and archived citizen‑free news stories with layered sound and shifting visuals. This process becomes its own art form: a fresh narrative born through the cut‑up technique—découpé, as the French say. The original Cut-Up method emerged from the dissection and reassembly of written text, transforming it into new sounds, images, and meanings. Rooted in the Dadaist experiments of the 1920s, it was William S. Burroughs who propelled cut‑ups into the spotlight in the 1950s and early ’60s. For Burroughs, they weren’t just technique—they were prophecy. Cut‑ups unlock hidden meanings, fracture time, and offer fleeting glimpses of what may come. Whether approached as divination or creative ignition, they continue to fascinate writers, artists, and dreamers. So have fun—and enjoy listening as my news stories and artworks are cut up, recombined, and reborn.
2018, Last Alberta Caribou
