High Tide, Low Tide
The brilliant design work of artist Marisol Escobar is on full display at the Merchant Marine Memorial in Battery Park in Manhattan. Twenty years ago, on September 5, 1999, I first saw this sculpture at high tide. The fingers of the man overboard were barely visible, and yet one of the other sailors was trying to save him — or was he saying a last goodbye as his friend slipped out of reach into the depth of the sea?
Four years later to the day, I returned to the sculpture. This time, at low tide.
The difference between high tide and low tide at the Merchant Marine Memorial is the difference between life and death, futility and hope. I always pick hope, even when the tide is high. The surprise feeling of seeing the impact of the low tide on this sculpture stays with me every day.
The first time I went to the sculpture, it set the tone for everything else that happened that day. Some people celebrate birthdays or sobriety days. I celebrate what I call my epiphany day. It’s a long story filled with intricate synchronicities, but I’ll distill it down to the important thing: our lives are our art, and the things we create are a by-product of how far we’ve come.
When I realized this, I was very young. I had no idea where to start, and I had no financial cushion to fall back on when I quit my job to find some focus. I went to the bookstore and wrote down the names of every person who wrote a book about the brain to interview them and find out how much I could change and still be me. I started tracking these people down. Lots of them gave great interviews and I learned so much, including that there was no real consensus on how I might become more — myself. So I did it the best way I could, and I still do. I’ve been at it for twenty years straight. I won’t ever stop.
In the time since, I’ve learned that this is really a process of chipping away, similar to what Michelangelo said about the figures already existing in his blocks, and his job being to remove rest to reveal it. Back then, cathedrals served as marble dealers. Michelangelo didn’t settle for old stone (though one of his greatest masterpieces, David, was made from an abandoned block with a fascinating backstory).
