Art & Culture

Freediving with James Monnington

As a marine ecologist and wildlife photographer, James Monnington’s whole life revolved around being able to dive. So, when he was struck with a bad case of decompression sickness, he thought it was game over. We spoke to James to hear more about his story Freediving with James Monnington, and his journey towards finding freediving.

So, what happened that day, when you got decompression sickness?

I’d travelled to the Philippines to assist on a research project on sharks. About four weeks into the project, after a perfectly normal day’s diving, I was overcome by lethargy and my vision became distorted – classic signs of decompression sickness (DCS). Initially I tried to deny it, knowing that it would mean the end of my trip but eventually I had to give in. I needed a trip to the decompression chamber, known affectionately as “the pot”. Pretty much fixed up, I headed back to the UK to get properly checked out. But all was not well. Doctors explained that I’d suffered Type II DCS, where nitrogen bubbles affect the nervous system which means that remaining scare tissue could be “sticky” for nitrogen bubbles, making a second accident much more likely. I could return to SCUBA diving but couldn’t pursue any aggressive schedules. I couldn’t have a career in SCUBA.

Crestfallen, I moved to Wales to undertake an MSc in Marine Environmental Protection but my principal motivation and passion had been pulled from under me. I tried to rationalise a return to SCUBA despite the risks, but it just wasn’t sensible. When I really thought I’d have to give it up, I came across an article about freediving. Although DCS is still a consideration for freedivers who go very deep, it can be a safer option for divers because you’re not breathing compressed air at depths. I’d found my way back into diving.

One of your biggest motivations for freediving is being able to take photographs. How did you get into photography?

My dad has always been a keen photographer, so he always encouraged me to take photos, teaching me the fundamentals of shooting and developing. I didn’t really get into photography seriously until I got into freediving though. Taking photographs as a freediver, you need to be very comfortable in the water. The biggest constraint on photography during freedives is the time. I can hold my breath for about six minutes, but it’s generally only about 4 if I’m actively swimming around. Short dive times require that you’re immediate, decisive and know your equipment inside out. Sometimes this is a hindrance, but there are so many ways that freediving is also hugely advantageous for photography. Compared to your bubble-blowing, equipment laden counterparts, you’re fast, nimble and silent. Animals generally allow you to approach much more closely, tending to be either entirely disinterested or mildly intrigued by your presence. For me, I think this allows me to get more collaborative images.

sting ray under water

Black and white is such an interesting medium for wildlife photography and not one that you see that often. Why do you choose to depict your freediving stories this way and what impact do you think this has on your photography?

I wish I could say I had some sort of cerebral, high-concept rationale for shooting in black and white, but the truth is, it’s never really occurred to me to do anything else. I’ve always loved the aesthetic, and I have a particular interest in war reportage, especially from Vietnam. There’s something about the simplicity, the immediacy and the way that it abstracts the environment, distilling the photo down to its core components.

I’ve never wanted to take those classic well-lit, saturated, colourful and super clear photos you see in dive magazines and competitions. They’re beautiful and require a lot of technical skill, but I find it hard to connect with them emotionally, and they don’t really represent my experience of the ocean, which can be very appealing, but can also be overwhelming, humbling and intimidating. Quite often, it’s a dark, murky, disorienting and surreal atmosphere, which is a side of the experience that I think is important to share as well. Black and white really helps with this. It can also make taking photos a lot easier when there isn’t much light or colour, which is an issue if you are deep and choose not to use artificial lights.

What are your favourite animals/fish to shoot? What have been the most stand out experiences with them, while you’ve been diving?

I really love diving with sea lions. They’re incredibly playful and interactive, and their speed, agility and grace put us to shame. I like to think about how much their high-spirited behaviour at the surface must contrast with the seriousness of their offshore, deep-diving foraging expeditions, where they descend to incredible depths and expose themselves to all manner of predators as they search for sustenance.

One experience that really stands out was in the Galapagos. I watched two juveniles playing with a piece of reed they’d found, passing it back and forth and chasing each other’s tails. After about twenty minutes, they included me in their game, racing up, leaving the reed floating in front of me before careening off, disappearing for a few seconds and racing back to reclaim their toy. It was a really special moment that I’ll never forget.

sea lion diving

Pollution of the oceans – particularly plastic pollution – is very topical issue at the moment. Is plastic pollution a problem that you’ve particularly noticed during your dives?

Unfortunately plastic pollution is something I’ve probably seen to different degrees in almost every country I’ve dived in. It’s quite upsetting, but I’m optimistic about the current zeitgeist in relation to marine pollution. This new wave of awareness and passion for reducing plastic pollution is pretty incredible, and I’m amazed at the number of people it has reached. There have been a lot of campaigners working for a long time, but I think we owe a great debt to the second Blue Planet series for bringing the issue to life for so many people.

There are a lot of other marine conservation challenges too, some which people can easily play a role in helping – for instance destructive overfishing. I highly recommend the fish guide apps by Greenpeace and the Marine Conservation Society if you choose to eat fish, but want to do so responsibly. Both organisations are also just generally good sources of information on marine issues and finding out how to help. Even it’s just filling out the odd online petition it’s a worthwhile contribution.

person freediving under water

Have you ever had any dangerous or worrying experiences with animals or in general when you’ve been on a dive?

Not really. A long time ago I got in on my own with a male seal and by the time time I’d swum out he started to make it quite clear he didn’t want me in the water with him; barking, circling me and stirring up sand with his flipper. I calmly but quickly exited the water and learnt my lesson.

Have you got any specific dives in mind for the future? Are there any places you’d love to go and explore one day?

I’m going back to Baja at the end of 2018, which I’m really excited about. Next year I’m planning on heading to Tonga to see the humpbacks. They’ve already been photographed extensively, but they’ve always been one of my favourite animals and I’d just love to see them up close and personal. I’m also hoping I can squeeze in a trip to see the Orcas in Norway, but I need to write-up my PhD next year and I have a feeling that’s going to take over the photography for a short while.

Long-term, I’d love to do visit the descendants of the pearl divers in Japan (the Ama) and South Korea (the Haenyeo), who are still using traditional freediving methods to collect shellfish and seaweed. As this subsistence lifestyle becomes increasingly difficult, their populations have dwindled, so I think it would be a real privilege to dive with them before their way of life dies out, or falls victim to tourist-cliches.

school of rays swimming under water

In what ways do you think freediving has impacted your life?

It gives me a sense of purpose and identity, and has introduced me to a community of many amazing people. One of the things I love the most is that means that I always travel with a specific objective, which had led me to some pretty odd locations that I would never have visited otherwise, including shark-fishing outposts, military bases, innumerable dead-end towns, abandoned oil rigs, harbours and many more.

And finally, do you have any advice for freedivers who are just starting out?

Find a certified instructor to train with (look for AIDA or SSI certification) and join a local club so you have people to train and dive with (and also to talk about freediving with, because your other friends will get bored of hearing about it!). Take your time, try not to be frustrated if it feels like you have plateaued, you have your whole life to improve. Be safe, respect your body’s limitations and have fun!

To read more about James’ experiences freediving, click here.

[xyz-ihs snippet=”GoogleAd-InArticle-2″]

[xyz-ihs snippet=”Ending-Donate-Logo”]

Art & Culture

Sixteen days in Tunisia

*Bab Al-Bhar, the historic Sea Gate of Tunis, once opened directly onto the Mediterranean. Today, white colonial buildings stand where water once lapped at the city walls.*

Tunisia is named after Tunis. Not the other way around. If the country takes its name from the city, then any attempt to understand Tunisia must start in Tunis.

Before reading any further, look at a map. You must appreciate the exceptional location of Tunis; only then does the city make full sense. Historically, Tunis was little more than a compact nucleus pressed in the strip of land between the Séjoumi lagoon (a flamingo sanctuary) and Lake Tunis, once the natural harbour. Everything that now feels expansive, avenues, neighbourhoods, infrastructure, rests on land reclaimed from water. Bab Al-Bhar, the Sea Gate, crystallises this transformation: standing there today, flanked by white buildings, you have to imagine the water once visible straight through the gate. The city quite literally stole land from the sea as it expanded.

That tension between land and water, between natural geography and human intervention, repeats itself everywhere in Tunisia. An artificial peninsula appears in the ancient harbours of Carthage. Salt lakes replace vanished seas in Chott el Djerid. Urban coastlines are pushed back, fortified, paved over. Today, the landscape bears the marks of centuries of negotiation with water, sometimes reverent, sometimes violent. But let’s stay in the capital for a moment.

Visiting the medina (old town) on a Sunday, when most souks are closed, made the architecture audible. Without the commercial noise, proportions, light and texture take over; the business-day buzz is thrilling, but silence teaches you how the city breathes. That quiet also sharpens your attention to thresholds. And then the beauty of the doors hits you. Again and again. Painted, carved, symbolic, they demand to be read, often concealing unexpected worlds behind them. In the medina, access is never guaranteed: museums may still be family homes, so you knock, you wait and someone might let you in. Knowledge survives through generosity. This constant negotiation between private and public space explains why repurposing feels so natural here. People inhabit ancient burial sites, former shrines become cafés and even the old slave market has transformed into the jewellers’ quarter; history reused rather than erased. The twenty madrasas scattered through the medina embody this logic perfectly: still embedded in daily life, neither fully public nor entirely private, their doors test your luck. Finally stepping inside one felt unreal, courtyards opening suddenly, tiled interiors that seemed imagined rather than constructed. I honestly felt I was dreaming.

But don’t forget to look up, as architecture constantly communicates power, belief and belonging, often far more than we initially perceive. The green-tiled domes signalling burial places, the octagonal or patterned motifs minarets proclaiming variants of Islam (Ottoman and Almohad respectively) or the colour codes identifying hammams and barber shops all speak a visual language that locals instinctively read. In Tunis, belief is never private, it is inscribed into skylines and façades.

That inscription extends inward. Mosques feel less like austere institutions than wellness centres, spaces of rest, learning and calm. Mats are placed against ancient columns to shield people’s backs from the cool marble. I even witnessed people nap inside Al-Zaytuna. So much peace that you can sleep. How do churches compare?

*The courtyard of Al-Zaytuna Mosque in Tunis, built in the seventh century with repurposed Roman columns. The Great Mosque remains the spiritual and commercial heart of the medina.*

Al-Zaytuna itself is the city’s anchor, the Great Mosque. The souks grew around it, originally as little more than rented awnings, now covered streets wrapping commerce around devotion. You walk through trade and suddenly stumble into the sacred. Built in the seventh century, shortly after the Islamic conquest of Byzantine Africa, the mosque stands on layers of belief. While it is likely that a temple existed here since antiquity, legend says it was built on the shrine of Saint Olive of Palermo. “Zaytuna” means olive, in Arabic and in Spanish. Language preserves memory even when stones are repurposed. Indeed, the entire prayer hall is held by a forest of Roman columns and capitals, older worlds literally supporting newer ones.

As a Spaniard, Tunisia had many a surprise in store for me. Rue des Andalous reveals one of Tunisia’s most consequential migrations. During the Middle Ages, much of Spain was Muslim. Forced conversions, expulsions and finally the mass expulsion even of Moriscos (former Muslims converted to Christianity) in 1609 drove tens of thousands across the sea. Spain was Al-Andalus in Arabic and so these Spaniards became known as “Andalusians”. Large numbers settled in Tunisia, founding neighbourhoods and entire industries. That legacy is not abstract. Chechias, the characteristic red felt hats associated with Tunisois men, were produced using techniques brought by Andalusian refugees. By the nineteenth century, chechia makers were among the wealthiest and most influential merchants in Tunis. The Tunis souks where you can still watch them work are living archives of forced migration turned cultural inheritance. Indeed, the link with Al-Andalus is still emotionally present. Several people called me “cousin” when I told them I was Spanish. It did not feel metaphorical. It felt familial. Spanish presence resurfaces repeatedly: forts at La Goulette, inscriptions in Castilian, Andalusian refugees founding towns like Testour, where the mosque clock runs backwards (‘anticlockwise’) like Arabic script. Jewish and Muslim Spaniards built whole towns together after fleeing persecution. They brought urban planning, architecture, food and memory.

*The ribat of Monastir, a fortified Islamic monastery, now separated from the Mediterranean by a modern coastal road. The ancient fortress once stood directly on the beach.*

Non-human animals are also everywhere if you know where to look, silently narrating human history. Today, cats dominate Tunis, lounging, glamorous, fully at home in the city. But North Africa was once also home to another feline: lions, ultimately erased from the landscape by hunting. At the Bardo museum, Roman mosaics celebrate them while also depicting their mass slaughter in amphitheatres. Venationes (gladiatorial hunting shows) paved the way to extinction long before modern poaching. Rome’s “games” were ecological disasters disguised as entertainment. El Djem boasts the third largest amphitheatre in the world, an uncomfortable reminder that the spectacle of violence against animals became industrial. Birds, too, mark survival. Storks now nest on electrical poles, thanks to recent conservationist efforts, and the ancient castle on the artificial Chikly island in Lake Tunis is now a natural reserve for over fifty-seven species.

Water management reveals another continuity of power. Ancient Carthage was defined by water engineering. Artificial harbours, commercial and naval, remain legible after 2,200 years. Aqueducts carried water across vast distances; cisterns stored enough to sustain one of the Mediterranean’s largest cities. Fresh water was sacred. Springs, such as that at Zaghouan, were divine. Nymphs were believed to guard the source so temples rose where water emerged from the rock. But human transformations of the landscape sometimes rival natural phenomena. Chott el Djerid, now a salt desert, was once part of the Mediterranean Sea. When geological shifts cut it off, the water evaporated, leaving salt behind. The salt is now actively extracted and shipped north, sold to Scandinavian countries as grit to combat icy roads. At the same time, visions of reversing this desiccation persist, from colonial-era schemes to the revival of the “Sahara Sea” project in the 2010s, approved by the Tunisian state in 2018. Coastlines have also been shaped by humans. Hammamet’s medina once met the waves directly. Boulders and walkways intervened. Monastir’s ribat once stood on the beach before roads severed it from the sea. Sousse’s medina now violently cut away from the Mediterranean. Tunisia has never stopped imagining how to reshape water.

The medina walls of Hammamet meet a rocky breakwater constructed to protect the coastline. Where waves once touched ancient stone, boulders now buffer the historic town from the sea.

A fisherman wades through the ancient Punic harbours of Carthage, still in use after 2,200 years. The artificial basins, once home to Carthaginian naval and merchant fleets, now serve local fishing communities. — The medina walls of Hammamet meet a rocky breakwater constructed to protect the coastline. Where waves once touched ancient stone, boulders now buffer the historic town from the sea.

Just as water and animals shape human settlement, so too does climate. Again and again in Tunisia, habitation reveals extraordinary adaptation to environment. At the ancient site of Bulla Regia, houses were built partly underground to escape heat, flooding interior spaces with light while sheltering them from extremes. At Matmata, troglodyte dwellings carved into the earth have stabilised temperature in a harsh desert landscape for centuries. At Zriba Olia, a town only abandoned decades ago, Amazigh (Berber) architecture merges seamlessly with mountain rock: the house ends, the mountain begins. Even the Roman theatre at Dougga takes perfect advantage of the mountain’s elevation. These are not picturesque oddities; they are intelligent, time-tested responses to landscape. But changes aren’t always benign, especially when colonial brutality is concerned. In Carthage, Roman policy deliberately buried, erased and levelled the Punic past on Byrsa Hill. Centuries later, French authorities turned amphitheatres into chapels, erected cathedrals atop Punic acropolises and even built a farmhouse on the Roman capitol at Oudna. Layers of civilisation were literally crushed to assert dominance. The irony is that archaeology eventually resurrected what imperial ideology tried to annihilate.

An underground villa at Bulla Regia, the ancient Roman city where homes were built below ground level to escape North African heat. Roman columns frame a sunken courtyard still preserving intricate floor mosaics.

A traditional troglodyte dwelling in Matmata, where Amazigh families have carved homes into the earth for centuries. The sunken courtyard design provides natural climate control in Tunisia's arid south. — An underground villa at Bulla Regia, the ancient Roman city where homes were built below ground level to escape North African heat. Roman columns frame a sunken courtyard still preserving intricate floor mosaics.

Language binds all of this astonishing diversity together. Phoenician (Punic) script underpins our Latin alphabet. Tifinagh survives among Amazigh communities. Writing systems are fossils of contact. Even humour reveals linguistic layering: Tunisians seem to have the worst, and best, wordplay, producing gems like “Pub-elle”, “Bar Celone” or “Mec Anic”, jokes cleverly built on French that land perfectly in Tunisian streets. Religion, too, refuses neat boundaries. Phoenician deities merge with Egyptian, Persian and Roman gods. Judaism flourished in North Africa from antiquity and remained deeply rooted in Tunisia until the twentieth century. Christianity arrived early, fractured into multiple denominations and left basilicas, cathedrals and martyrs’ narratives across the landscape. Islam absorbed, adapted and reinterpreted what came before. Syncretism is not the exception here, it is the rule.

By the end, what remains clearest is this: Tunisia is not a palimpsest with erased layers. It is an accumulation where nothing disappears entirely. Former seas leave salt. Empires leave infrastructure. Migrations leave words, recipes, and cousins!

Sixteen days is nothing.
And it was everything.

Written by: Fernando Nieto-Almada

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Fernando read History at university in London and Paris and currently teaches Languages. You can follow him on Instagram here.

Art & Culture

“Patagonia National Park,” Book by Rewilding Chile

Patagonia National Park is one of Chile’s most important ecological restoration or rewilding projects. It consists of the former Tamango and Jeinimeni reserves and the Chacabuco Valley, a sector that was donated by Tompkins Conservation to the State of Chile in 2018 and which was formerly one of the largest cattle ranches in the country.

To highlight and celebrate the work done in the Aysén region, where today the community can enjoy and connect with this protected area, where species and ecosystems are gradually regaining their place, the book “Patagonia National Park” was published.

The book’s photographs and stories are dedicated to the diverse landscapes of Patagonia National Park, encompassing forests, glaciers, and steppe, as well as the park’s wild inhabitants and the efforts being made to recover healthy populations of endangered species such as the huemul, rhea, puma, and Andean condor. Most of the images are by the prominent photographer Linde Waidhofer, while the texts were written by various personalities such as Yvon Chouinard, founder of the outdoor clothing brand Patagonia, a close climbing friend of Douglas Tompkins; environmental figures such as Marcelo Mena, and Juan Pablo Orrego, as well as the words of former president Michelle Bachelet, in the prologue.

In the summer of 1994, while Douglas and Kristine Tompkins were traveling through Patagonia, marveling at the beauty of the Aysén steppe, they camped on the banks of the Chacabuco River: “We imagined that such an extraordinary place should be protected forever; it was like nothing we had ever seen before,” said Kristine, co-founder of Rewilding Chile, at the time. Twelve years later, with the President of the Republic, Michelle Bachelet, she signed the decree to create the Patagonia National Parks Network, a public-private strategic vision of ecosystem conservation, which seeks to promote the economic development of local communities based on responsible nature tourism. At this milestone, the creation of the new Patagonia National Park was also announced.

Today, Kristine Tompkins presents to the community a book that brings together profound reflections with beautiful images of the park, which take you on a journey through this area at different moments in its history and give an account of the efforts made to restore this ecosystem. In its 276 pages, it brings together texts by 18 contributors who talk about the geological history of the park, the human settlement of the valley, the infrastructure developed for public access in the park, the change from a cattle ranch into a national park, its rich wildlife, the restoration actions to restore the park, the history of the park, the history of the park, the history of the park and the efforts made to restore the ecosystem.
The book contributes to the conservation of the ecosystem, among other topics.

For Carolina Morgado, executive director of Rewilding Chile, a legacy foundation of Tompkins Conservation, this book reinforces the concept that national parks are the jewels of a country where everyone is welcome. “With this book, we seek to bring the natural heritage closer to readers from different corners of the planet, to raise awareness about how nature can heal when we give it the space to do so,” concludes Carolina Morgado.

“Con este libro, buscamos acercar el patrimonio natural, a los lectores de diversos rincones del planeta, para generar conciencia sobre cómo la naturaleza puede sanar, cuando le damos el espacio para hacerlo” Carolina Morgado, directora ejecutiva Rewilding Chile

About the park

Patagonia National Park covers 304,000 hectares, where the former Lake Jeinimeni National Reserve and the former Tamango National Reserve were merged with the lands of the Estancia Valle Chacabuco, donated by Tompkins Conservation.

The most important features include the plant formations of the Patagonian steppe of Aysén, which is at its maximum expression in this area. Also noteworthy are the large extensions of Patagonian Andean forests present in the high and foothill sectors associated with bodies of water, which mainly contain three species of the beech genus (Nothofagus): the lenga, the ñire, and the coigüe. Rainfall can reach 200 millimeters a year, producing dense, nutrient-rich forests. These forests are home to 370 types of vascular plants, which are vital to the survival of the surrounding fauna.

Patagonia National Park is home to and protects the highest levels of biodiversity found in Aysén. All of the region’s native species are present, from Andean condors to guanacos and pumas. The park also protects large tracts of habitat for the endangered huemul, an iconic species part of Chile’s national coat of arms.

DOWNLOAD THE BOOK “PATAGONIA NATIONAL PARK”

Art & Culture

Cultural Heritage Included in the COP30’s Ocean Action Agenda for the First Time

The United Nations Climate Change Conference (COP30) in Belem, Brazil had a
theme of “Forests to Sea” that recognized the interconnectedness of these two vital
ecosystems.

For the first time, in a significant milestone for international climate policy, culture and
heritage was formally recognized within the framework of the UN climate negotiations
under the “Fostering Human and Social Development” axis of the Global Climate Action
Agenda. This inclusion extended to the Ocean Action Agenda, integrating the human
and social dimensions of marine environments into the global conversation on climate
adaptation and use culture-based solutions for climate action.

Five new cultural heritage indicators were adopted as part of the 59 “Belém Adaptation
Indicators” for measuring progress against the Global Goal on Adaptation (GGA). These
indicators measure adaptation implementation for tangible and intangible heritage,
digitization, emergency preparedness, and community engagement, including
Indigenous knowledge and practices.

The new focus emphasizes that the ocean is not only a natural resource but also a
significant cultural space that shapes identities and livelihoods, particularly for coastal
and island communities.

The COP30 Virtual Ocean Pavilion hosted wide-ranging events – 2,500 registrations by
delegates representing 150+ countries fostering dialogue among leading voices
worldwide. Here are four of the art shows that were registered at the COP30 Virtual
Ocean Pavilion.

1. Paradise by Ian Hutton and Selva Ozelli for Lamont-Doherty Earth
Observatory of Columbia University

The Lamont-Doherty Earth Observatory (LDEO) is a world-renowned research
institution within Columbia University’s Climate School, founded in 1949 to study Earth’s
natural systems. LDEO scientists were among the first to map the seafloor, provide
proof for the theory of plate tectonics, continental drift and develop a computer model
for predicting El Niño events. LDEO’s research covers everything from formation of the
Earth and Moon, as well as the movement of carbon and other materials through Earth’s systems from its atmosphere through land via seismic activity, plate tectonics, tree ring
analysis to rivers and oceans to identify climate shifts and changes.

The LDEO’s Forests to Sea themed research and exhibits Art Meets Science for COP30
feature the interconnectedness of these two vital ecosystems through art and science
to encourage the expression of original ideas that have long, and transformative
impact. Professor Steven Goldstein, the Interim Director at LDEO, notes that “Science
and art share many common characteristics. The essence of science is to use our
imagination with observation and logic to comprehend the world around us, how it is,
was, and possibly will be, while art is also the expression of our imagination about what
is, was, or might be.” He has encouraged using art and science together to
communicate to the broad public the critical role of geoscience in our understanding of
how our planet works, which must serve as the basis for finding solutions to the climate
crisis.

Paradise by Ian Hutton and Selva Ozelli – COP30 Digital Ocean Pavilion

Ian Hutton explained the impact of ocean warming on seaslugs featured in his
exhibition at LDEO titled “Paradise” with Selva Ozelli which was registered at the
COP30 Digital Ocean Pavilion “Since 2013, Prof. Stephen Smith (Aquamarine
Australia) and I (Lord Howe Island Museum) have been hosting a Sea Slug Census
program a long-running citizen science project that has spread across Australia, and to
sites in Indonesia and Vanuatu, with more than 4,000 participants photographically
documenting the distribution of over 1,100 species to date. This program uses public
contributions to document sea slug distribution, providing valuable data on how these
seaslug populations are changing due to ocean warming.”

2. Healing Waters by Selva Ozelli for Global Ocean Development Forum

The main “Global Ocean Development Forum” (GODF) for 2025 took place in Qingdao,
China, bringing together nearly 700 guests from 68 countries and regions gathered to
discuss pressing ocean issues, including marine economy, technology, and ecology.
The forum’s agenda addressed a wide range of cutting-edge topics spanning
sustainability, innovation, and more, all in an effort to secure the seas for present and
future generations. An ocean-themed art exhibition was held during this conference at
the Lixian Art Museum, Shandong which featured three paintings from Selva Ozelli’s
“Healing Waters” series that was a registered COP30 Ocean Pavilion event.

The “Healing Waters” art show by Selva Ozelli is a series of exhibitions focused on
environmental conservation and the rehabilitation of threatened water bodies, of the
Chesapeake Bay, which is the largest estuary in the US and a National Treasure. Its
64,000-square-mile watershed encompasses one of the most economically significant
regions of the United States. It is protected by the landmark Chesapeake Bay
Watershed Agreement (adopted in 2014, amended in 2020) that calls for, among other
things, conservation and restoration of the treasured water, sea, and landscapes with
participation from six states – New York, Pennsylvania, West Virginia, Maryland,
Delaware, Virginia, and the District of Columbia.

Unfortunately in the 1970s, the Chesapeake Bay was found to contain one of the
planet’s first identified marine dead zones, where waters were so depleted of oxygen
that they were unable to support life, resulting in massive fish kills including the extinct
Darter Fish which is the focus of my “Healing Waters” series, so we collectively work
towards avoiding marine dead zones in our world.

Healing Waters by Selva Ozelli – COP30 Digital Ocean Pavilion

3. Ocean & River Lovers by Selva Ozelli for Havre de Grace Maritime Museum

The “Ocean & River Lovers” art show by Selva Ozelli, an ambassador to Oceanic
Global is a series of exhibitions presented globally at the United Nations Conferences
and museums to raise awareness about the climate change and plastic pollution crisis
affecting oceans and rivers.

The artwork, which includes paintings of angel fish, and discus fish, draws attention to
how marine life and ecosystems are harmed by warming waters, and pollution.

The show is part of a larger body of work endorsed by the UNESCO Ocean Decade and
cataloged by the United Nations, Tokyo Metropolitan Museum, and Berlin University of
Art.

Selva Ozelli explained why she focused on Amazon rivers’ Discus Fish in her Ocean &
River Lovers exhibition for Havre de Grace Maritime Museum registered at the COP30
Digital Ocean Pavilion “The Amazon River is home to the vibrant, disk-shaped cichlids
known as discus fish (Symphysodon spp.) These colorful fish are native to the Amazon
River basin and its tributaries, where they are typically found in slow-moving, heavily
wooded areas. They prefer warm, soft, acidic, and highly oxygenated clean waters.

Discus fish thrive on a diet rich in protein, which they forage in their specific habitats.
However, their delicate ecosystem is under threat. Climate change and the ongoing
deforestation of the Amazon directly harm these beautiful fish by destroying their
habitat, reducing their food sources, and ruining their breeding grounds.“

Ocean & River Lovers by Selva Ozelli – COP30 Digital Ocean Pavilion

4. NY’s Lighthouses by Semine Hazar and Barbara Todd for National
Lighthouse Museum

The “NY’s Lighthouses” series is by oil artist Semine Hazar and Hudson Valley
photographer Barbara Todd that celebrates Lighthouses of New York, the birthplace of
the US environmental movement, which are recognized landmarks with symbolic and
aesthetic qualities, including distinct architectural characteristics located in picturesque
settings.

The exhibition highlights important aspects of the region’s past, capturing New York’s
coastal landscapes and maritime history, as once these lighthouses played a crucial
role in the region’s maritime history, guiding ships and enabling trade and transportation.
And its adaptation to technological advances with a strong connection to the Hudson
River School, America’s first art movement, which celebrated the beauty of New York
and its surrounding landscapes that are an integral part of ongoing preservation efforts
the National Lighthouse Museum is actively involved in.

NY’s Lighthouses by Semine Hazar and Barbara Todd – COP30 Digital Ocean Pavilion