Glaciers are in my bones. I grew up drinking glacier water, playing in glacial silt, breathing it in every day in my hometown. Glaciers and their waters sewed together my growing body.

They used to be abundant, a fixture hanging low in the mountains. You could see them from miles away, their blues even more vibrant on a cloudy day. But they’re disappearing now. Glaciers that I used to touch are out of reach. They dwindle with winter rains, unpredictable snowpack, and warmer temperatures.

I think a lot about the future when glaciers are out of sight, far from the average person’s ability to climb the mountains to see them. I think a lot about what I’ll miss, and the water and dust that will spill from my body when they’re gone.

This concertina book is made from scraps, hand painted and hand cut, glued together to evoke the tongue of a glacier.

2025, watercolor paper scraps, watercolor paint, glue, time.