Art & Culture

Mario And The Need for Becoming

Scuba diver observing Mario, a large Longtooth Grouper (Epinephelus bruneus) that transitioned from female to male through sequential hermaphroditism in Tateyama, Japan

I met Mario in Tateyama, Japan, long after he had transitioned into a male. I should note, first and foremost, that Mario is actually not a handsome man, as one would think with me, but a very large Longtooth Grouper. Intrigued yet? My dive guide, the fantastic Kan-san of Bromie, mentioned him casually (the way one might note the tides or the weather).

“I went to see Marilyn one day and realized that she was no longer female and had become male, so I thought I had better give him a new name. Mario.”

There was no hesitation, no drama, just the simple poetic fact. Maybe that’s what caught my attention, the ease and care, the simplicity of nature and how Kan expressed it. I’ve watched many of my friends transition and have seen their struggles. The way the ocean handled this, as well as Kan, with respect, with balance; that simple sentence stirred something in me. Since then I’ve gone back year after year to see Mario, to swim with him, and to better understand how a fish could embody something we humans still struggle to honor: the naturalness of change. What struck me the most was how effortlessly the story was told, no whispered tones or long pauses. Just biology, plain and simple. When the dominant male in a group of Longtooth Groupers or Kue, in Japanese, disappears, the largest female steps up. It’s a seamless transition guided not by choice or laden with controversy but by the needs of the reef and himself. I remember thinking how change underwater is treated as ordinary, while on land we turn change into politics. The ocean seems to understand something we forget: that transformation is not a statement, it’s just life embracing its full potential.

I arrived in Tateyama on that day several years ago, for the first time with my partner in crime, Michi, on a rather biting winter day. The sun was bright, the air was crisp and the water was apparently an appalling 14 degrees. I had never dove in water this cold and I wasn’t looking forward to it. However, after seeing an IG clip of what lurked below these Japanese waters I was completely willing to fend off hypothermia to get down there. If you know me well enough you know it was sharks. Sharks were luring me into the frigid Pacific and not just a couple of sharks but a huge bunch of Banded Houndsharks. There was only me and one other diver that day, as Michi wasn’t coming. My soon-to-be dive buddy was a native Hawaiian who also had some reservations about jumping in on this winter’s day. After I was suited up in untold layers of neoprene we started our dive briefing and it was here that the above conversation took place. Although I came for the sharks I must admit I had a newfound curiosity in meeting this grouper.

Mark and Michi on the road for seven seas media ! we don’t exactly know what we’re doing, but we make up for that with Style and enthusiasm. — *Mark and Michi on the road for SEVENSEA Media ! we don’t exactly know what we’re doing, but we make up for that with Style and enthusiasm.*

I sat on the boat heading out to sea, with near-frozen waves lashing against the side of the boat rather violently. I really, really started to question this decision. This mental rollercoaster didn’t last long and in one big stride I was in. The water felt fine for the first second until it actually broke the seal on my wetsuit and a wave of cold hit me. To be fair, it was bearable compared to what I was expecting. I descended down a line into perfect visibility. I mean perfect! In winter months it’s harder for algae and stuff to grow due to the cold, so the vis improves a lot. It took about two seconds of looking around to see what I had come for: sharkies. There was a huge mass of them.

Bromie, the dive center in Tateyama, has become quite famous for these sharks and Kan-san keeps a very fatherly approach tending to his friends. I won’t go into too many details about the dive except you absolutely need to go. And do it in the winter as well because I would wager it was one of the best experiences of my life. I say that a lot but this time, well…

I was getting acquainted with the site, reeling with joy as sharks and rays swam above, under, and directly into me. Talk about a kid in a candy store.

As I tried to manage the sensory overload, I turned around to see Kan-san in his bright yellow jacket holding up his underwater sign with big capital letters spelling out MARIO! Well there he was. He looked, well, he looked like, umm, well he looked like a grouper. Yup just a big grouper. It was interesting that I would become so attached to him from this rather unseemly first meeting. He swam around gulping water. He demanded fish from his diver friends, and well just kinda groupered his way around. I swam alongside him and as I’ve come to understand, he barely took notice of me as most fish don’t, they are just going about their business. The dive was crazy good but it was time to safety stop. As we did, Japanese Cormorants danced around trying to make meals of my fingers. We surfaced and I was half a hair from an icy death until a very nice guide grabbed the neck of my wetsuit, pulled it open and poured a rather large ladle of scalding hot water down the front of me directly onto my penis. A moment of shock and then a very warm relief.

We did two dives that day, the second potentially better than the first and then regretfully headed back to Tokyo. It was a day I will never forget and lingered with me for a long time. Maybe it was the absolute awe of the dive site mixed with these new feelings of fondness for this particular grouper that has made me come back to Tateyama each year, perhaps a longing to understand what is so easy underwater and so violent on land. Why one person’s need to change is so difficult for humans when it’s nothing but the most natural thing in the world.

A few months later I found myself in an online class on Cephalopods hosted by Atlas Obscura. If you aren’t familiar with this organization I suggest you google immediately. You will thank me, as many of their online courses are intriguing and borderline absurd. I was learning about octopus, squids, and those swirly things that are older than most things (what are they called, Nautilus right?). Suddenly, the teacher started telling us about how the male Great Australian Cuttlefish will actually pose as a woman, in fishy drag, to impregnate a female. I mentioned this to a friend of mine, Su, and she casually rebuffed, “Yes that’s how my husband got me.”

I guess it’s a thing then. This was the first time I heard a marine academic say “gender expression in sealife.” My first thought was, “What kinda woke crap is this!” but my mind immediately turned back to Mario. This is, in fact, a thing. Groupers, clownfish, even coral itself have ways of fluidly moving from sex to sex or even tapdancing in between. From dragged-out horny Cuttlefish to Mario stepping up to take control of his clan. Nature is always adapting to change and sex/gender is not left out. Across the reef gender isn’t static, it moves like the tides and currents themselves.

The final time I went back to Bromie in Tateyama I got Michi to break her long hiatus from diving to come see the joys I’ve been privy to for years. We got very lucky as we managed to get to the dive center on the one day between one typhoon leaving and another one coming in. Even though it wasn’t quite yet winter, it was freezing again, but this time I was prepared. I wasn’t prepared for the flu I got as a result of jumping into the Pacific that day but it was still worth it. I emailed ahead to ask if I could have some video of me and Mario as I was eager to write this article about him. Again I lucked out as the currents subsided long enough allowing me a brief moment on the side of the dive site Mario calls home, to meet my friend again. He’s an older grouper now, still strong, however, no longer the dominant male of the reef. A younger grouper has taken his place. But Mario still moves through the waters with quiet confidence, that does not need to command attention to be felt. Even in the hierarchy of fish there is a reverence for what was, and all the divers who come to Tateyama know of him. He will always be part of this place.

In the reefs off Tateyama, this Longtooth Grouper does not question its reflection. When the dominant male disappears, the largest female quietly begins to change. Hormones surge, cells rearrange, and within days, she becomes a he; fulfilling the same biological rhythm that has pulsed through life for millions of years. There’s no identity crisis here, no politics, just an ancient intelligence woven into the coral itself. Perhaps that’s what the ocean keeps trying to tell us: that transformation is not defiance of nature, but one of its oldest expressions. From clownfish to humans, life bends, adapts, and reshapes itself to survive. Gender, in this light, is not a boundary, it’s a current, vast, flowing and alive.

If a grouper can do it with such quiet certainty, maybe we, too, can learn to see difference not as deviation, but as one more shimmer in the sensational ever-changing tide of life.

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