Earth Dynamics, part three: The Geologist and the Illustrator
The Earth Dynamics saga is now free for anyone to read!
I’ve decided to tweak The Jeff Stream’s publication schedule a bit. You may have noticed that I’ve pulled back to posting once a week, because it turns out two solid weekly pieces are a challenge for me to keep up with (plus it’s probably more of me than you bargained for). I’ve also decided to change what I put behind the paywall. Rather than hiding these weird fiction pieces that I spend a lot of time on, I’m going to shift to offering my paid subscribers a weekly life-in-progress update - something more intimate and journal-like, with a more off-the-cuff look at what I’m reading, thinking, and doing.
With that in mind, I’m lifting the paywall of the first two pieces of Earth Dynamics, so interested parties can catch up with the “story” to date. Here’s Part One: Magma Dearest, and here’s Part Two: Race to Red.
The inspiration for Part Three of Earth Dynamics, like Part Two, comes from the ubiquitous National Geographic Society. I doubt I’d feel half as connected to the wider world without their stolid, thoroughly middlebrow, U.S.-centric, Disney-owned lens. I kid, but with affection - I think they provide an amazing entry point for anyone, kid or adult, who wants to explore science, history, and global culture. But there are blind spots, both today and in the past, one of which was on my mind while writing this piece.
For a few years, National Geographic ran a wonderful blog called All Over the Map, which was compiled into a book of the same name. It includes the story of Marie Tharp, a pioneering female geologist who was behind the visualization of the first fully accurate map of the ocean floor. Needless to say, her groundbreaking contribution was relegated to a secondary role for many years in favor of her male work partner Bruce Heezen before she received her full due - she even had to spend months convincing Heezen himself that the evidence they were studying showed a rift valley in the center of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge. It was a discovery that vindicated the plate tectonic theory, and she went on to map all of the world’s oceans. (This fun animated video gives a nice overview of Tharp’s story.)
The fiction below isn’t literally about Tharp and Heezen, as even a cursory reading will make clear. But their story was definitely on my mind as I wrote it - especially the photo of them at the top of this post. Better for me not to say too much beyond that - I hope the story stands on its feet beyond any knowledge of the background. For what it’s worth, I think you could probably read the Earth Dynamics stories in whatever order you want - they’re each self-contained, but they come together to create a whole. I think there will be one more after this one. I’m curious to hear what you think, however you approach them!
Earth Dynamics, Part 3
The Illustrator and the Geologist
“Remarkable,” said the Geologist. “Impressive. Very well done.”
The Illustrator, who knew that every string of plaudits laid the ground for a critique, stood silent.
“Strong stuff. Quite strong. It will stand among the most striking in the book. Fine indeed.”
Satisfied with his performance, the Geologist resumed nodding at the painting on his desk. Whatever he said next, the Illustrator knew, would be what he really meant.
“It’s just…” the Geologist picked up his pipe to twirl distractedly between his hands, “Could it come across as a bit contrived? This is an issue for me, not for you - the work is beautiful, I hope I’ve made that clear. I’m just questioning whether this is the right approach.”
The Illustrator agreed; it was the Geologist’s problem. She was quite pleased with what she had done - so much so that she harbored a hope the image would be unusable and she would be allowed to keep it for herself.
“It’s very important to me that we prioritize verisimilitude. Our audience is children, after all. They have limited experience with the world. Yes, they learn in broad strokes, but should we really be showing them - and I hope you don’t take offense, because this is truly stunning work - should we really be showing them cartoons?”
She watched him look back down at the image as he absently tapped the bowl of his pipe against the rim of the desk, scattering flakes of ash dangerously close to the illustration board. She followed his gaze across her carefully brushed panorama, denuded of flora and studded at careful intervals with features that would later be inset with typographic labels: “Thrust Fault,” “Rift Valley,” “Laccolith.”
“It’s true that this is intended to be a heuristic, and it does a wonderful job of that. And yet, I wonder if we’re doing our young readers a disservice by presenting something so fanciful. There is no topography on the face of the earth that remotely resembles what we depict here, masterfully crafted as it might be. These features could never appear in succession like this - to imply as much is to inculcate belief in the rankest fantasy. I’ll be the first to agree that our job requires refining the rough edges of reality to clarify the underlying structures for growing minds. But here, I fear we may have gone a step too far.”
To date, the Illustrator had provided the Geologist with dozens of paintings for the textbook he was editing. Each one took certain liberties with the exact representation of the natural world to better drive home its pedagogical point. Not all of these renderings depicted his area of expertise, and for those he had fewer criticisms to offer. Though his name was recognizable enough in his field to look attractive on a book cover, he made no claims of universal knowledge. But this picture, the Illustrator had understood, would be a special case.
“But no, no, all is not lost. Each individual feature is exquisite, really, well done. Perhaps, rather than lumping them all together like this, we could break them out into smaller pieces. The volcanoes could be one image, the fault lines another…”
“I’ve seen it.”
The Geologist continued nodding, caught up in the inertia of his thoughts. “Mm-hmm. Mm-hmm. It could lay out quite nicely. What was that?”
“I’ve seen it.”
Her repetition surprised her. The first time she spoke it was a mistake - she had promised herself not to say anything and was disappointed at her default. If she had brushed it off, he would have quickly moved on. But now it was too late.
“You’ve seen, er… what, exactly?”
“This landscape. It is painted from memory.”
Three blinks, and then an incredulous grin. “Say, you have a sense of humor after all! What’s the idea, keeping it hidden from me all this time?”
Here was another out - but having already stepped over the line, she could go no direction but forward.
“I’ve hesitated to mention it, in deference to your professional wisdom. I was sure it would sound silly, and I was right. But in defending the work, I don’t wish to pretend that what it shows is a mere phantom of my imagination.”
The Geologist’s smile went lopsided, but she could see the effort he was making to remain a good sport. “I’m not sure I understand. When I suggested this approach for this illustration, you gave no indication that you had any kind of… predisposition for the subject.”
He was wrong that it had been his own idea, but the Illustrator had grown used to that. Every time she visited his university office to deliver her latest work, he waxed effusive over its quality - but every time, he gave himself credit for the ideas that informed it. She had last seen him two weeks prior, when she arrived to turn in her latest painting - a diagram demonstrating the textural differences between the three major types of rock - and discuss this next assignment. Being so close to the subject, he became caught up in the details of individual features and claimed to have trouble envisioning the full spread. She was hesitant to make her suggestion - a vista from a lofty height, looking down upon a broad span of great topographical variety that would serve as a singular primer of what the earth might be capable of, all across one seamless composition. He was so enthusiastic about the idea that he pulled a bottle of scotch from a drawer, insisting on a toast before attempting a clumsy pass at her. Perhaps it was in neither of their interests to provide an accurate account of that evening.
“I claim no mastery that lies beyond the evidence of my senses,” she said.
“But, but - you can’t be serious! The world is fully mapped, or nearly so. It is a physical impossibility for a series of landforms like this to exist in such proximity - and if it were, surely I would be aware of it!”
“I have nothing to speak from but experience. It may be best to let the matter drop.”
“You can hardly expect me to drop a subject that has so greatly piqued my interest. For god’s sake, please sit down.”
His hand disappeared to the drawer that housed the bottle. Here we go again, she thought as he placed a glass on either side of the painting. She had already made enough of a fool of herself that there was no advantage in refraining from completion. She sat.
Picking up the glass to maintain the illusion that she would presently take a sip, she began. “As I imagine you are aware, in becoming an artist I followed in my father’s footsteps. Surely our shared surname was a factor in your publisher’s decision to hire me. My father was well-known as a fine artist - his specialty was botanical themes, and he preferred to paint from life. He traveled the world in search of exotic specimens, either painting in the field or bringing them home when he could. He also brought home the occasional tropical disease, which is how my mother perished while I was still young.”
She found herself taking a sip after all. This afternoon was not proceeding as she might have wished. “My father was a good man, and was very attached to me despite his many absences. Rather than drum up a spinster aunt or send me away to a boarding academy, after my mother’s death he chose to rearrange his work around bringing me up. He cultivated a greenhouse for use during the school year, but on my vacations we took long voyages together. This was before the war, when most places were still open to a man with a notable name and an American passport - even one with an adolescent daughter in tow. If I were of a verbal disposition it would be the perfect subject for a memoir: coming of age at the elbow of a globetrotting bohemian. I walked the streets of Baghdad in burkha, skated the frozen lakes of Lapland, became infatuated with a surly gaucho while riding on the back of his horse across the Pampas. Perhaps it’s little wonder that I choose to live such a sedentary life today.”
Another sip. She silently prayed for him to make her stop talking, but, pouring his second glass, he already appeared to be in a trance.
“In any event, you can see how my upbringing prepared me for a future in scientific illustration. I always lacked my father’s flair for the outré - his plants pressed the very limits of believability, whereas I’ve always prided myself on creating images that reflect a more objective point of view.
“On the trip in question, I was 12 years old. My father had heard tell of a particular flower that only grew deep within an uncharted forest. It bloomed for just a few days each year, which happened to land within the middle of my summer break. He built an entire three-month itinerary around the possibility of catching a single glimpse of this unique plant. At that time I was even less interested in romantic flora than I am today, and I had begun to take our adventures for granted - as if every average little girl was dragged zigzagging around the globe to places most grown adults would never see. The thought of spending weeks trekking deep into the forest, far away from silverware and the radio, filled me with petulant ennui. But what choice did I have?
“The hike into the forest was tedious and filled with bugs. I tried to pass the time with my own drawings, but the sweat made it hard to hold a pencil, and everything I put down was instantly smudged. Unlike my father’s canvas, my paper notebooks had all buckled with humidity by the time our guides told us we had reached the flower’s domain. My father became an instant madman, swinging his machete every which way in search of his quarry. Deciding I’d be better served taking my own direction, I picked up a compass and a canteen and set off in search of a stream to soak my feet in.
“I didn’t need to travel far to find one. It was a lovely spot, illuminated by an opening in the canopy that allowed the sunlight to frolic alongside me. When I returned to the camp, my father was manic with glee - he had found his flower, only a few hundred yards from our tents! And so, knowing he would have patience for nothing beyond his subject, I spent a few hours each day following my current a bit further downstream. As long as I stayed beside it I had no fear of getting lost, so I grew quite bold, even as the stream itself began to widen and flow faster.
“One day, as I was about to turn back, I heard a rushing sound a bit further ahead. Could it be a waterfall? I may never have been moved by plants, but I have always been a fool for a good view. If I was quick about it, perhaps I could get a glimpse of something special before I returned to camp.
“Standing on the bank, another quarter-mile ahead I could make out where the water took its downward plunge - but due to the overarching boughs I saw nothing beyond it but a patch of empty sky. I needed to carefully push my way through some brush in order to find the precipice myself. Whatever I had been expecting, my wildest fantasy couldn’t have prepared me for what I found. I needn’t describe it to you, though - you can see it in the painting right in front of you.”
She was about to take another sip when she discovered the glass was empty. She amazed herself once more by picking up the bottle and pouring herself another. Again she paused to allow the Geologist to express his disbelief, but again he remained uncharacteristically silent. Another sip and she resumed.
“I stayed to watch the sun set over the distant peaks. It expanded into a swollen red surge before dissipating into darkness. But the earth itself stayed lit, thanks to the fiery light pouring from the summits as they pulled their molten treasure to the surface. They almost seemed to be in conversation, as if they were entertaining each other. It was an image of an earth perfectly at ease with itself. No plants or animals disturbed its autonomy - it existed for its own sake, with no patience for anything else.
“I must have taken a step closer to the cliff’s edge without intending to. A pebble, dislodged from its perch, clattered down to the stark plain below. I knew I must have imagined it, but it seemed at that moment as if something changed. The volcanoes flared up and then rapidly began to dim. The wind seemed to pick up, and it suddenly hit me how dark it was. Taking one final look, I plunged back upstream to make my way to the camp.
“When I returned, my father was beside himself. At first I thought my absence had disturbed him, but it wasn’t me - it was the flower. Its short bloom had already passed - he watched it wither over the course of an hour before he could complete his painting. The journey back was a long one, and all he could speak of was returning next year to finish the job.
“Looking back, it was the only place we visited twice. The second time, however, I was eager for the adventure. Far from bored, I was fired up with anticipation to revisit that magnificent lookout. I hadn’t mentioned anything about it to my father - he assumed my excitement was on his own behalf, and I let him believe it. I considered bringing it up with our guide, but by that time I was 13, and I’d learned that it wasn’t in my interest to tempt men to join me on private strolls into the wilderness. This was my secret to keep.
“That first day, I simply assumed that the waterfall was further along the stream than I remembered. It had been a full year, I was older now, so perhaps I was slower. I returned undaunted a second day, and then a third. When I finally reached a much smaller waterfall, in much different surroundings, I allowed myself the possibility that I wasn’t going to find it. I again returned to camp under the cover of darkness, and this time my father was furious with me. He forbade me to leave the camp again without our guide, so I spent the remaining time in our tent. Again, his mood was less a reflection of my behavior than his fortunes: He had found another bloom, but he couldn’t bring himself to complete the painting. On our return, he admitted that his half-finished portrait of the fading flower captured its spirit more accurately than a full blossom painted over it.”
She finished what remained in her glass and placed it carefully on the desk. Evening had fallen as she told her story - a dim light from the window spread tall shadows across the dusky room. It dawned on her that, if he reached out to touch her again, she might not push him away.
Instead, he switched on the lamp atop his desk. The flood of incandescence delivered an instant headache. She rarely drank - how had she thought she could handle two stiff glasses of scotch?
“Where was it?”
“It… it wasn’t anywhere, of course. In my head, I suppose.”
“Where were you traveling?”
Lulled into a torpor by her own narration, she hadn’t expected the Geologist to feel any different. How stupid to have let her guard down.
“I… I don’t see how it matters.”
“It certainly does matter. It matters a great deal. I’d very much like to know where you encountered this anomaly.”
“I’ve told you already, I’m sure that it was my imagination.”
“Nonsense. We’ve been working on this project together for several months now, and it’s apparent that you don’t have a fanciful bone in your body. I’ve examined your illustrations very closely, and it’s clear that not a single stroke of your brush reflects an idle invention. You yourself insisted not an hour ago that this painting was a product of your own observation. Why backpedal now?”
The mock obliviousness, the waning sunlight, the drink - she had clearly been set up. But why? The best course now was silence.
“Please understand that I bear you no ill will. But I’m afraid I must insist that you sate my curiosity. Your story, you see - I’ve heard it before.”
Express no interest, she insisted to herself. Don’t give him anything more to use against you.
After carefully placing her painting to one side, the Geologist opened a dusty, oversized tome that had been lying directly beneath it. Pulling out the ribbon he had used to mark the page, he rotated it to allow her a better view. There she saw, etched in the style of the early 17th Century, a near-perfect facsimile of the painting she had just completed.
“Have you seen this engraving before?”
Betray nothing, she cautioned.
“Mm. Well, I don’t see how you could. This is an exceedingly rare volume from our university’s library - only a half-dozen copies are known in the world, and as far as I understand the images have never been reprinted. It’s an account of the travels of a lesser-known figure from the Age of Exploration named Ronaldo Arturo de Roderigo. My Portuguese is too rusty to provide you an accurate translation from the top of my head, but the gist is that de Roderigo had an experience very similar to yours. He saw what you saw but was then turned away, unable to find it again.”
He proffered the bottle. “Another drink? Well, suit yourself.” After pouring another, he continued.
“I discovered this image while doing research as a graduate student, and it turns out to have a bit of a reputation among a certain class of geologists. Most refuse to credit de Roderigo’s account, believing it to be fabricated, possibly allegorical. Some consider him a sort of godfather to our science; others a charlatan or a dupe. Either way, none can deny he possessed the acumen to contrive a clever didactic model. I’ve always doubted his story, but I’ve never forgotten it. Far from it - this image is the reason I entered the field in the first place. As such, it’s haunted me at every step of my career. Geological fieldwork can be incredibly dull, as I’m sure you can imagine from observing your father’s obsessions firsthand. But the mystery that first drew me to the study of the earth’s features… that never fully leaves you. So during our conversation last week, this engraving leaped to the forefront of my mind. A change came over you when you described your idea - a change that reminded me of my own sense of wonder at viewing this book. I’ll admit, it threw me off balance, and I haven’t fully gained my composure all week.”
He was a loquacious drunk, she could see. It struck her that, if he hadn’t jerked her from langour into vigilance, she might have found herself affected by his claims. But any interest in what she could learn from that antique text had disappeared along with her trust.
“Much to my astonishment,” he resumed after another swallow, “I believe every word you said to me this evening - that is, until you began to deny the truth of your own words. I hope my story has gained enough of your confidence to consider answering my question: Where did you encounter this sight?”
Nothing seemed more important to her at this moment than getting out of this office, but she couldn’t quite work out how to do it.
“You’ll notice that I’ve not volunteered the location of de Roderigo’s own travels. His mother country planted roots in nearly every corner of the globe, so revealing his ancestry was hardly a clue. But I’m positively burning with desire to know if your tale accords with his own.”
The look in his eyes betrayed fire indeed, though it was a glow quite different from the lava that enchanted her so many years before. It would be easy enough, she understood, to simply tell him the truth - and even easier to tell him a lie. Either would have eased the tension, and she could readily imagine him returning to his former abstracted state, attempting to engage her in awkward, earnest conversation about their mutual discovery. But she couldn’t bear the notion of betraying herself further.
Without thinking it through, she abruptly stood up from her chair. “I resign.”
This was apparently the one eventuality he hadn’t banked on. “Excuse me?”
“I resign from the project. I apologize for wasting your time.”
“Is this… are you serious?”
“I’m afraid I am.”
“I’m simply… I apologize if I’ve been a bit forward. But you must understand, this puzzle has pursued me since my school days. To have found someone else who can provide another piece… I can’t let this opportunity pass by. You can see that, can’t you?”
As she watched his bluff facade recede into helplessness, she recognized the desperation that was driving his behavior. But didn’t he understand that, however the riddle may have loomed over his life, it cast a wider and darker shadow over her own? It’s one thing to succumb to the thrall of a story told in a book, another entirely to be betrayed by your very senses - not in the posh confines of a dusty library, but alone in a forest, half a world away from everything most familiar.
Her resolve hardened. “I can fortunately afford to forfeit my remaining pay. But I must insist on retaining this painting, since you’ve signaled that you have no intention of using it in the book.”
Cheeks flushing, he shook his head with the vigor of a child. “No. No. I think you’ll see it’s quite clear in your contract that any work you turn in becomes the sole property of our - of my publisher.”
Of course. Now that she had proven her intent to walk away, possession of the painting remained his only advantage. He would no doubt be willing to offer it back for a price, but it was one she was unwilling to pay. Her face and posture softened. It was time to let it go.
“You are correct,” she granted. “I was foolish to suppose otherwise. I really do wish things hadn’t turned out this way, but…” she sighed. “Well. Before I leave, what would you say to one last toast? To our prior partnership - which you must admit, had been successful, to a point.”
She could again see that she had surprised him - and with surprise came hope. He nodded slowly. Straining to avoid spooking her with a sudden movement, he silently, carefully filled the two glasses and regarded her with narrow eyes as he held it out over the table.
“To missed opportunities,” he said.
“To that which remains hidden,” she replied.
As her glass briefly touched against his, she felt it slide through her fingers. Minutes seemed to pass as they both helplessly watched it crash against the painting directly beneath it. She had thought it would simply bounce off and discharge its load upon her work, but, to her delight, it shattered into a hundred shards that flew to every corner of its surface. She was even more delighted to see him pull out his handkerchief, which quickly smeared the alcohol across the paint and ruined it much more inexorably than if he’d simply stayed his hand and let it dry.
The moment she turned to leave the room was the first and only time he saw her smile.
Part 4 coming soon!