The life and nature in Greenland

Copeland: Photography is a powerful companion of these exchanges. There is an argument, especially with today’s technology, that if you did not capture it, it did not happen! Today’s tools make it so much easier to square off on that score. But for me, photographing these places has two primary functions. First, as a testament. It enables me to revisit places that memory alone cannot serve properly. To appreciate the finer details of these places is not something that always happens in the field. Photography plays a pivotal role in the rediscovery phase, and notably with high-capacity image capture. Exceptional glass, like ZEISS, and the details it extracts makes for further exploration from the comfort of your home. Obviously, this is the kind of exploration that is afforded to viewers in the sharing phase of those photographs, too. For me, that is both a privilege and a duty. To be in front of such exotic subjects, whether the ice or its inhabitants, comes with a responsibility. It is also self-serving, of course, as I always think of my camera as a weapon in the dissemination of ideas. In this case, the idea is to reconnect us with Nature, and sensitize people to the impact that we collectively have on our environment. And that even in remote and isolated places like the northernmost coast of Greenland, the damaging imprint of our industrial development can be felt and seen. To be a visual storyteller in these environments holds gravitas.

Copeland: When I first arrived in Qaanaaq, the larger village of northern Greenland (pop.600), two adolescents were having their first communion. Christian missionaries did a fine job impressing upon these northern communities the Lord’s dominion! But the celebration, like birthdays, is a chance for the whole village to open its doors and share food amongst themselves. They bring out the delicacies that have, in some cases, been buried in the ground for up to a year. Fermented seal meat with raw auks’ eggs is some of the choice offerings, along with raw whale and cooked polar bear. Admittedly, not for the faint of heart, as raw meat comes with its fair share of blood. Pieces of meat are carved from the floor, resting on cardboard sheets, and dwellers of all ages spend hours hacking at it with knives and bare hands. More importantly, it is the sharing that is notable, as everyone is invited. Sharing is also the spirit that was on display when I visited Qeqertat. When I first arrived in the village, I knocked on a random door and was let in, while the family was enjoying a caribou stew. I was invited to sit down, and served a bowl, without so much as exchanging a word. Obviously, the interaction I had with Kulunnguaq, the eight-year-old girl in the village, was a high point for me. Her lack of toys left an impression on me, striking a desire to share some of the excess that crowds my two girls’ bedrooms. That impulse was quickly quashed by the acknowledgment that she did not seem any unhappier for it. But the more lasting impression is Nature itself, in its scale and timelessness. The giant fjords with enormous cliffs that plunge precipitously into the frozen sea. The feeling of being dwarfed by dimensions that make us humans feel utterly inconsequential. And the sense that the geology which has been there since long before we showed up will remain, mostly unchanged, long after we are gone.