Drawings that show the beauty and fragility of Earth

I consider it my life's mission

to convey the urgency
of climate change through my work.

I've traveled north to the Arctic
to the capture the unfolding story

of polar melt,

and south to the equator to document
the subsequent rising seas.

Most recently, I visited
the icy coast of Greenland

and the low-lying islands of the Maldives,

connecting two seemingly disparate
but equally endangered

parts of our planet.

My drawings explore moments

of transition, turbulence,

and tranquility in the landscape,

allowing viewers to emotionally connect

with a place you might never have
the chance to visit.

I choose to convey the beauty

as opposed to the devastation.

If you can experience

the sublimity of these landscapes,

perhaps you'll be inspired
to protect and preserve them.

Behavioral psychology tells us
that we take action

and make decisions based
on our emotions above all else,

and studies have shown that art
impacts our emotions

more effectively than a scary news report.

Experts predict ice-free Arctic summers
as early as 2020,

and sea levels are likely to rise
between two and 10 feet

by century's end.

I have dedicated my career
to illuminating these projections

with an accessible medium,

one that moves us in a way
that statistics may not.

My process begins with traveling
to the places

at the forefront of climate change.

On site, I take thousands of photographs,

and back in the studio, I work
from both my memory of the experience

and the photographs to create
very large-scale compositions,

sometimes over 10 feet wide.

I draw with soft pastel, which is dry,

like charcoal, but colors.

I consider my work drawings,
but others call them painting.

I cringe, though, when I'm referred to
as a "finger painter."

(Laughter)

But I don't use any tools and I
have always used my fingers and palms

to manipulate the pigment on the paper.

Drawing is a form of meditation for me.

It quiets my mind.

I don't perceive what I'm drawing
as ice or water.

Instead, the image is stripped down
to its most basic form of color and shape.

Once the piece is complete, I can finally
experience the composition as a whole

as an iceberg floating
through glassy water,

or a wave cresting with foam.

On average, a piece this size

takes me about,
as you can see, 10 seconds.

(Laughter) (Applause)

Really more like 200 hours,
250 hours for something that size.

But I've been drawing ever since
I could hold a crayon, really.

My mom was an artist, and growing up,
we always had art supplies

all over the house.

My mother's love of photography
propelled her to the most

remote regions of the Earth,

and my family and I were fortunate enough
to join and support her

on these adventures.

We rode camels in northern Africa

and mushing on dog sleds
near the North Pole.

In August of 2012,
I led my first expedition,

taking a group of artists and scholars
up the northwest coast of Greenland.

My mother was originally
supposed to lead this trip.

She and I were in
the early stages of planning,

as we had intended to go together,

when she fell victim to a brain tumor.

The cancer quickly took over
her body and mind,

and she passed away six months later.

During the months of her illness, though,
her dedication to the expedition

never wavered, and I made a promise
to carry out her final journey.

My mother's passion for the Arctic

echoed through my experience in Greenland,

and I felt the power

and the fragility of the landscape.

The sheer size of the icebergs

is humbling.

The ice fields are alive with movement
and sound in a way that I never expected.

I expanded the scale of my compositions

to give you that same sense of awe

that I experienced.

Yet, while the grandeur
of the ice is evident,

so too is its vulnerability.

From our boat, I could see the ice

sweating under the unseasonably warm sun.

We had a chance to visit
many of the Inuit communities in Greenland

that now face huge challenges.

The locals spoke to me
of vast areas of sea ice

that are no longer freezing over
as they once did,

and without ice, their hunting
and harvesting grounds

are severely diminished,

threatening their way
of life and survival.

The melting glaciers in Greenland are
one of the largest contributing factors

to rising sea levels,

which have already begun to drown
some of our world's lowest lying islands.

One year after my trip to Greenland,
I visited the Maldives,

the lowest and flattest country
in the entire world.

While I was there, I collected
images and inspiration

for a new body of work:

drawings of waves lapping
on the coast of a nation

that could be entirely underwater
within this century.

Devastating events happen every day

on scales both global and personal.

When I was in Greenland,
I scattered my mother's ashes

amidst the melting ice.

Now she remains a part
of the landscape she loved so much,

even as it too passes
and takes on new form.

Among the many gifts my mother gave me
was the ability to focus on the positive

rather than the negative.

My drawings celebrate the beauty
of what we all stand to lose.

I hope they conserve as records
of sublime landscapes in flux,

documenting the transition
and inspiring our global community

to take action for the future.

Thank you.

(Applause)