It is curious that for all its vastness the ocean seems intent on concentration rather than dilution. A soft, persistent rain of particles into saturated blue depths; the becoming of stone. And in this accretion, this slow filtering, the ocean is engaged in a process not unlike that of painting. A soft red stone is dragged over the surface of a coarser, darker rock — palms are stained with wet ochre. Flax: a flower, an oil, a long stem to be retted and spun and woven. Sable, hog, squirrel: a menagerie that has threatened and fed and warmed. The survival of villages, of nations, is intricately bound up in the woody stems of plants; the muscle and sinew and soft hair of so many animals. And the making of art is woven through it all.