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Approach｜Beneath

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The “Approach” column is structured around the central themes of 798CUBE’s exhibitions, presenting research-oriented contributions from scholars, artists, and practitioners across art, the humanities, science, and technology. Through interdisciplinary perspectives, it examines the conceptual frameworks underlying each exhibition, positioning art not merely as an object of contemplation, but as a critical lens through which to reflect on contemporary conditions, technological transformation, and human experience. Rather than seeking fixed interpretations, the column extends discourse beyond the exhibition space, fostering an open field for sustained intellectual exchange.

Against the backdrop of “Kairos Resounding” currently on view at 798CUBE, this edition revisits a text by curator, writer, and creator Geraldine Kirrihi Barlow, offering a poetic and perceptive reading of Julian Charrière’s practice through the intertwined lenses of diving, perception, and ecological consciousness. Drawing from their shared experience of diving together, Barlow approaches Charrière’s work from an intimate yet critical perspective, weaving embodied experience with philosophical reflection. Moving between submersion and surface, personal encounter and planetary inquiry, the text explores how underwater environments alter consciousness, destabilize perception, and dissolve boundaries between self and world. Through Julian’s works, water emerges not merely as subject or medium, but as a condition of heightened awareness, one that reveals the fragile entanglements between human curiosity, technological ambition, and ecological precarity. Written in a language that is both lyrical and incisive, the essay invites renewed reflection on deep time, unseen worlds, and humanity’s evolving relationship with planetary life.

Beneath

Geraldine Kirrihi Barlow

We each take a deep breath, and dive

the blue all around, deepens

fins and legs propel us, down

into the cool. Sunlight, shifting lengths

of long-traveled energy, reveal

Enabling growth, sight, understanding

the hunt. And reach only so far

Julian sees a reef shark

He follows its planar movement

I turn, stretch, look to the surface

as if this one breath were infinite

A turtle swims slowly by

mysterious of purpose, navigating

an ancient invisible highway, as do I

Water between and within

Surfacing, we remove our snorkels

laughing, alive with all there is to see

the possibility to be, differently

Water, conveying risk, potential, and energy

Julian Charrière dives, as do I. We all do, as human beings, to differing degrees. We need only slow down, hold our breath, dip beneath the surface and focus on extending the moment. Traveling not only deeper, but further back in time and evolution, our most distant ancestors were permanent water dwellers. Millions of years later our bodies still carry the imprint of this watery state in deeply encoded ways. We share this history collectively, and personally, from the first nine or so amniotic months of our lives, our earliest unfolding consciousness in our mother’s womb. Is it this sense of shared connectedness and nurture that draws us back to dive beneath the water’s surface with such curiosity? And compels us to seek out ways to extend our time in this alternate state?

Water connects us with life. All the life we know of. As we dive down into the depths, we become vulnerable, and we see, feel, and understand this interconnectedness in new ways. To be in the water breaks the usual flow of time, sparking meditation, affording us the space to recalibrate and reach other forms of comprehension. The experience of art can also be a circuit breaker, stimulant, or invitation to travel deeper; it works in different ways, no held breath, or special breathing apparatus required.

Julian and I met working on an exhibition. We were excited to realize that we shared an interest in diving and the underwater world. A friendship grew and we decided to plan a period diving together, traveling to a small island at the southernmost reach of the Great Barrier Reef. In this essay, I reflect upon these special days, Julian’s new video and exhibition Midnight Zone, his artistic practice, and diving itself. I hope to explore how the extended experience of being beneath the water might have elicited a shift in consciousness, a kind of “dive-consciousness,” that has impacted Julian’s artistic practice, in ways which stretch beyond creating works in the underwater realm.

I first became curious about this question upon encountering Julian’s photographic series Where Waters Meet (2019). The images are taken underwater and in themselves suggest an altered state of consciousness. Each features a single naked human figure, apparently suspended at a distance in a vast black expanse. They are compelling and unsettling. In some instances, the entire figure cannot be fully discerned. In one, only the feet are really revealed; the legs and body are hinted at, but they disappear into a foggy, cloud-like substance. In another, the figure seems to float horizontally over a diffuse mist-like layer. We have the sense we might be looking at a celestial, almost cosmological space; it is not immediately evident that these images have been taken underwater. Each work has a subtitle: 3.77 atmospheres and 3.98 atmospheres. For most of us, the word atmosphere evokes the layer of gases surrounding a planet, including the air we breathe, thinning as gravity diminishes and finally giving way to the infinite black volume beyond. On the surface, at sea level the atmospheric pressure is one. Divers are keenly aware of what it means for this number to increase. For every 10 meters we descend, a further full atmosphere of pressure bears down upon our bodies. In only 10 meters, a further full atmosphere, as water has a much greater density than air. We feel the impact upon our bodies as we descend, over the first few meters particularly, and must maintain awareness and adapt our behavior if we are to survive. At two atmospheres of pressure, a volume of air would compress by half. Think of this happening to a balloon, or in your bloodstream, with each tiny suspended bubble of air being similarly compressed. 3.77 atmospheres is 27 meters in depth, a long way to descend without weights, or supplementary air—to be simply one sole human being. One conscious body.

Julian created Where Waters Meet in Mexico working with free divers who were expert in reaching such depths without any additional specialized gear. He had himself scuba dived in the cenotes, caves, or sinkholes housing bodies of deep water, largely fresh, of remarkable clarity. He was drawn to them for this project as he knew some were home to a sulfurous algae evolved to live at a particular point, or layer, within a body of water where the chemical composition suddenly shifts, for instance from saltwater to fresh, a chemocline. In the darkness, the presence of this algae creates the visual effect of a cloud, so what we see in the images is not dust or vapor, but a form of life, evolved to inhabit these specific conditions, where two bodies of water meet.

In each photograph we see only one human figure, entirely alone. The vulnerability of this body seems enormous. While diving to these depths would not be unusual for an experienced free diver, it is something else entirely to ask them to pause at such a depth. It is Julian’s awareness of what might be achieved through bringing these conditions together which makes these images possible. For each living person or body we see at depth, drawing from a single, long, ultra-extended breath, there are others behind the scenes, including Julian, to support the sustenance of this one life—and the creation of the image. To do their part, this supporting team needs time, along with specialized diving, photographic, and lighting equipment, and many breaths.

For me, scuba diving deepens my sense of what it is to be alive. It has a meditative quality, at times instilling a heightened awareness of the sound and beauty of each breath we take, the particularity of the air and atmosphere we usually inhabit. We may not be conscious of how precious this is until we leave it behind, or need to carry an air supply with us and realize this is finite. Time will now be measured in breaths, depth, pressure. Similarly, we are not usually conscious of our bodies as a wondrous weave of interdependent biological functions until they are extended via the apparatus of our scuba diving equipment. This additional equipment, and the human ingenuity behind it, remind us of the evolution and precision of our body’s function, previously unconscious and invisible. For instance, when we breathe, the sound of each breath resonates through the cavities and diaphragm of the second stage regulator positioned in our mouth and connected via the first stage to the tank on our back. We hear each breath differently also, as sound travels more quickly through water, and within our own bodies, sound is also felt from within. Before diving, we carry out a number of checks, for instance, that our regulator is working, that we have sufficient air, that valves, weights, clips, buckles, fins, and mask are all as they should be. When we check on the function of the equipment that extends our own body’s capacity, we take responsibility for our own life and safety. We perform the same series of checks for our buddy, and hope they will carefully do so for us.

In this way, to dive asks us to be aware, take care, and seek knowledge. To be responsible. At a bare minimum, it could be seen as procedural: do this, then that—a sequence of checks and balances. But diving benefits from many different types of knowledge. In a moment of urgency, knowledge can be life-saving: enabling us to better handle a gear failure, a turning current, a change in surface conditions, a medical emergency, or wildlife incident. Like artists, the best divers are responsive, deeply curious encyclopedias of unusual information. Across both disciplines, there is a benefit to keeping such knowledge lightly and at the ready. Being underwater, like making or experiencing art, is about attention. The diver, the artist, and the viewer attend the unknown, the unexpected. Being prepared allows us to better travel toward the unknown, to ask: If we go to the very edge, the edge of the edge, what will we find? What might we see? What can we bring back?

1 Julian Charrière, Where Waters Meet, [2.31 atmospheres], 2019

In the stretching black emptiness of the Where Waters Meet images, it is highly unusual that we can see the distant diver so clearly. We barely sense the presence of the water itself. This is due to the distinctive clarity of the water in the cenotes, which very slowly filters down through surrounding limestone over extended periods of time. Elsewhere, across the Earth, most bodies of water include a much “soupier” mix of particles, debris, and life. In the tropics, generally known for good visibility, we might see up to 30 meters into the distance; after this, details become indistinguishable. In a lake or river, or polar waters, we may only gauge a third of this distance, even less. Good visibility, or in diving terms “good vis,” is relative. The slow-filtered waters of these underground caverns are amongst the clearest to be found.

Just as the water we look through is not visible, we have few cues to realize that the subject of each photograph is a diver. Free divers would most often be depicted with fins, or as they were pulled downward by a weighted sled. The discipline of constant weight diving, particularly without fins, relies on the body alone. It is one of the most physically demanding and, many might argue, “pure” forms of free diving. In Where Waters Meet, the diver extends their usual training to suspend their motion and pause at the very point where we would imagine they must surely need to swiftly return to the surface and breathe again. From these moments of stillness, a more universal quality emerges, focused not so much on diving as an activity, or this diver in particular, but on a sense of the limits the human body can reach toward. At the very edge of where it seems possible to exist, life itself becomes the subject.

The coordination and expertise necessary to create such an image are more of a tool to achieve this effect and are not made evident. Space and distance are key, and we rely upon the presence of the mysterious cloudbank of bacterial life to further read a sense of depth. Various liminal states are suggested: a prelife space of endless potential, the in-between-ness of purgatory, or the passage toward a final experience of an external life after death.

2 Hieronymus Bosch, Ascent of the Blessed, ca. 1505–15, Gallerie dell’Accademia di Venezia, Venice

Where Waters Meet [2.31 atmospheres] (2019) (fig. 1) evokes Ascent of the Blessed (ca. 1505–15) by Hieronymus Bosch (fig. 2), where above the clouds, angels shepherd each soul through the darkness, and toward a radiant and a tunnel of light. Each individual in this state of transition is naked. In Julian’s photograph, the single naked figure is alone, unaided, apparently without direction. Suspended in space, it isn’t clear whether they are being drawn toward the light or falling away from it. The soaring potential of human invention—and closely connected to this, the tragic potential of hubris, that is, excessive pride or overreach—is one of the central motifs of the story of Icarus and his father the inventor Daedalus, as Ovid recounts.[1] Daedalus fashions two sets of wings, thrilled to experience flight, yet Icarus is distracted from his father’s warning not to fly too close to the sun. He doesn’t pay sufficient attention to the technology which supports him. Just a child, he forgets to take care. Tragically, his behavior leads the wax in his wings to melt and he falls to his death. In a version of this scene long thought to have been painted by Pieter Bruegel the Elder, which is not clearly attributed until today, we see only the feet of Icarus as he disappears into the ocean (figs. 3, 4). Julian evokes a very similar image in the black depths of the cenote (fig. 5). Having escaped the usual spaces inhabited by humanity, Daedalus searches for his son:

“Where are you, Icarus?” and “Where are you?

In what place shall I seek you, Icarus?”

He called again; and then he saw the wings

of his dear Icarus, floating on the waves;

and he began to rail and curse his art.

3 Pieter Bruegel the Elder, Fall of Icarus, undated, Royal Museums of Fine Arts of Belgium, Brussels, inv. 4030

4 Detail: Pieter Bruegel the Elder, Fall of Icarus, undated, Royal Museums of Fine Arts of Belgium, Brussels, inv. 4030

The same tensions connecting what can be achieved through exploration, invention, the pursuit of knowledge, and the exercise of care underlie Julian’s artistic practice more broadly, just as he is concerned with the dangers of a lack of foresight, hubris, the potential for calamity and loss. How do we navigate a path to a better future, and ensure we don’t inadvertently fly too high?

These questions find new form in Julian’s recent work Midnight Zone (2024), also filmed underwater, this time in the Clarion–Clipperton Zone of the central Pacific Ocean between Hawaii and Mexico. This abyssal ultra-deep-sea area of remarkable biodiversity includes ancient thermal vents, seamounts, and seabeds which are home to a diverse range of barely known life-forms, some adapted to inhabit vast fields of polymetallic nodules containing high concentrations of rare minerals such as manganese, nickel, copper, and cobalt. It is now the largest single area of focus of deep-sea mining exploration and contracts granted by the International Seabed Authority. The nodules grow exceptionally slowly, a centimeter over several million years. Mineral layers accumulate around a core, sometimes of ancient biological matter such as a shark tooth. They might grow to the size of an egg or potato. So much so that underwater strip mining of these “fields” has been likened to harvesting potatoes. Soon to be scaled up from early tests, it will require the use of specialized, remote-controlled deep-water robots: imagine the progeny of a mole and a garbage truck. Whilst these metals are vital to technologies expected to facilitate our global transformation to a low-carbon economy, there is something horrifying about the destruction of this ancient habitat, these little-known life-forms, occurring with so little awareness. “These areas are the Earth’s least explored. It’s estimated that only one out of ten animal species living down here has been described by science,” notes the marine ecologist Thomas Dahlgren, part of a 2024 research expedition. “We need to know more about this environment to be able to protect the species living here.”[2] As mining technology and international legal frameworks are swiftly developed, we face a complex and threatening future where we may destabilize a vast yet largely unknown environment thousands of meters below our daylight reality—before we fully understand its role within our greater Earth systems. A recent study found that polymetallic nodules seemed to be producing “dark oxygen” that is creating oxygen without the presence of light.[3] In such deep waters, oxygen is rare but vital to surrounding organisms. Many scientists believe that life itself originated in the hydrothermal vents of these deep waters.

In Midnight Zone, Julian creates a beacon to illuminate these depths, inviting us to relate these issues to our own lives and understanding of the world. To do so, he built a Fresnel lighthouse lens, effectively creating a submarine lantern. This is no easy feat given the exceptional pressures involved. The results are mesmerizing, brilliant shades of blue that wrap around us as we sink, giving way to the deepest tones of navy, then black. A slow envelopment. Our eyes adjust, and we become aware of a suggestive hint of light sweeping through the midnight dim. As if, like the inhabitants of the abyssal realm, we too are realizing that there is more to see here. The light becomes stronger. We cannot see the source yet. Suddenly, a fish swims by. As the beam of light passes, other fish are momentarily illuminated, also in motion. Then the black returns.

Evocative of the unconscious, or a symbolic “witching hour,” Julian borrows the title of his work Midnight Zone from the region of the sea where sunlight no longer penetrates—below 1,000 meters. Red, orange, and yellow light cannot pass through more than the first few meters of water; after this we see only blue, ever deeper and darker, until the black. The midnight or bathypelagic zone is the single largest habitat on the planet, comprising about 70 percent of all seawater; beneath this, deeper still, are the abyssal and then hadal zones, where light must come from life itself. In the video, the sweeping signal of the lantern, a sequence of wider and narrower beams of light, becomes an unusual mid-ocean beacon, drawing to it a myriad of different creatures who themselves circle and explore this visitor.

5 Julian Charrière, Where Waters Meet [3.71 atmospheres], 2019

The larger fish such as trevally and sharks cruise by comfortably, while others school and move protectively in unison. In Midnight Zone, the water itself is much more visible than in Where Waters Meet, with light in motion through it and illuminating clouds of particles, algae, and other organic material. The soup and cycle of life.

We get our bearings as we come to see the lamp and light source itself, the sculptural form of the magnifying ridged glass lens rotating within the lantern. The Fresnel lens design was first conceived in the early nineteenth century to concentrate and magnify light, enabling a much further reach across the ocean and curvature of the Earth. When we think of a lighthouse, we might imagine this distinctive lamp at the top of a tall, elevated structure on a cliff or promontory. A symbol of both danger and safety advising, “Beware, check your course, steer away from these rocks” and, reaching out across the darkness, “Take comfort, I am on duty.”

By contrast, the lantern in Midnight Zone is visually unanchored, with no connection to land. It is in fact suspended beneath a boat. Sometimes our perspective is from underneath the light. We have the sense of a space of infinite depth and vastness stretching around the beacon. There are periods when no fish swim by, and we might again come to imagine that this black underwater realm is perhaps air, or deep space. Then the reverie breaks as we see the silhouette of head, fins, and tail cross the brilliance of the lamp. At times, another kind of dream space opens, a multitude of small fish circle the lamp counterclockwise, another larger species swims to its own rhythm, and they move around each other, separating as if governed by an invisible force field. Patterns are interwoven and change, from circles and curves to sudden switchbacks. I am reminded of a time-lapse image of the stars in the night sky, no longer single points of radiance, but each star transformed into a curved streak of light.

Some creatures bring their own illumination. One swims by, a bristle worm, reminiscent of a submerged centipede. A long, spiraling tail bearing a train of lights has the beauty of a fractal dream. The creature is crowned with long, radiant, reaching antennae. The light arrays move together but are difficult to connect to a more familiar anatomy in our mental catalogue. It is only the light of the lantern sweeping past that reveals an extraordinary transparent body with each leg terminating in a kind of petal, all seeming to flutter and propel this curious entity through the water. Bioluminescence has a special place in the deep: not only a signal, but potentially an evolved decoy; a shining lure. Just as fires were sometimes lit to create a false lighthouse and call sailors and their cargo toward dangerously rocky shores.

A moment of darkness again, a pulse of light. The distinctive shape of a vampire squid floats into the sweeping reach of the lamp, head downward, mission-focused. The bell-like spread of its membrane-connected limbs point upward. Darkness again. Then another pass of light illuminates the deep red-black skin and black interior membrane. The squid’s own bioluminescent features remind me of flying over a city at night. A starship in the deep, small and vast.

In Midnight Zone, the rhythmic circling of each beam of light is counterbalanced by a measure of blackness in a way which seems to describe our experience of knowing and not knowing, seeing and yet not fully understanding. How we address this space of not knowing, blackness, or the process of seeking knowledge is vital to achieving a deeper understanding. It isn’t only effective to do this through book-learning, stories told, or relayed knowledge; sometimes we must extend our own somatic tools of learning and perception. Swim through dark waters.

I see a rolling, clambering motion

Many limbs, coordinated and well camouflaged

The eye, and head. An octopus

I surface and catch Julian’s attention

Diving again, I reorient myself and search

It has frozen, wary

In the same spot. We watch for as long as we can

Intrigued, before resurfacing

Returning below, we find s/he

has sought refuge, under a nearby ledge

Peering beneath, I am momentarily—connected

eye to eye, with another life

Is there such a thing as a “dive-consciousness,” as I proposed earlier, and if so, how might it infuse Julian’s artistic practice? What did I learn from our time diving together? We began our underwater adventure, excited by the prospect of a period of focused scuba diving in a diverse marine environment. For both of us, an opportunity to reconnect with the experience of being underwater, to step away from work, to renew and reenergize. To be, differently.

To dive, to scuba dive, you are transformed and become another kind of creature. On land, breathing air, we can believe our body is autonomous, separate from the world and under our control. The clothes we wear further isolate us from our environment, enabling us to wrap ourselves in a protective microclimate. We do so without thinking, as a default position; it would take more explanation to move around the world without this protective, enculturated layer.

When preparing to scuba dive, you are very conscious of the sensation and function of everything you add to your body, everything you carry. The insulating skin of the wetsuit can be hot and uncomfortable on land or the boat. Then you add your buoyancy control device and weights, fins and mask. Out of the water you are ungainly. Diving from a boat, there can be a sense of controlled chaos as everyone scrambles to assemble their gear. I remember our first dive; we did our checks, and next ran through the same process with each other. Then into the water, releasing air from our buoyancy control device, we swam slowly downward. As we left the warm light of the sun, it became cooler, and a deeper shade of blue. After the first few meters, you can easily descend faster than you realize. All the gear that seemed so awkward out of the water suddenly operates as an extension of your body.

While there can be a greater sense of connectivity underwater, you also have a stronger sense of your own internal world; you can feel more vulnerable, more distant from those of your own kind. Without speech, you instead tap for attention and use a vocabulary of hand signals. We translate our consciousness differently without speech. Perhaps it becomes a distraction, noise. A cardinal rule of scuba diving is to stick with your dive buddy, to take care of each other. Scuba—the acronym stands for self-contained underwater breathing apparatus—is a reminder of the artificiality of one’s underwater acclimatization. If something goes wrong with this system for you or your buddy, you have a limited window of time in which to respond. In extreme circumstances, you may need to offer your spare regulator, or perform an emergency ascent together. And in the most catastrophic of scenarios, you may need to perform a diver rescue—the swift return of an unresponsive diver to the surface. If your buddy isn’t nearby or paying attention, your life will be endangered.

6 Julian Charrière on a dive with Geraldine Kirrihi Barlow, Lady Elliot Island, December 25, 2022

This need for awareness and preparedness sharpens your attentiveness to the quality of engagement you share. When you find a strong connection, or are with a trusted diving buddy, you can more safely relax and find yourself less conscious of the equipment which sustains you. It feels possible to extend your awareness outward into the surroundings. Just as water, with its greater density, relays sound more efficiently, you come to feel more vibrationally connected to the person you are diving with and the environment around you. I believe our brain and body change. There is a flow of feeling or energy between the waters of the marine environment and our bodies. I experience a more decentralized, embodied sense of self. As if my brain were no longer the sole director of my body, as if my mind and self now extended out into the water, perhaps atomized, or dispersed.

This sensation is perhaps amplified when you are in the water without a wetsuit, or without much gear at all, only fins, a snorkel, and a mask. Diving beneath the surface, the sense of becoming another kind of creature recurs in amplified form. There is so little to separate you from everything else around. Moving through the water, perhaps under a ledge or a swim-through, feels very much like flying. As you become comfortable with holding your breath, there seems to be more and more to explore. Over 60 percent of our bodies are water; just as sound will move more swiftly through us, in this environment other forms of awareness do as well. We become more connected to the surrounding life: seen, sensed, imagined, yet to be discovered. Yet to be.

Diving beneath the water, I remember we were both so curious. I took a photo of Julian perhaps 4 or 5 meters beneath the surface. He had paused to look at a green sea turtle as it swam between us (fig. 6). The turtle would usually have blended into the deep blue of the water, but it now stood out clearly against Julian’s black shorts, top, and fins. They must have been less than 2 meters apart, and appeared to be studying one another intently. Both would eventually need to return to the surface and breathe, Julian sooner. Water can be a medium of such precious connection, curiosity, and extended consciousness. Where we feel closer to one another, and to life in all its complexity.

Julian brings these same qualities of care, curiosity, and deep awareness to his artistic practice. In Midnight Zone, the rhythmic pulse of the lantern sets a framing tempo, not dissimilar to our awareness of our own breath. We are encouraged to extend our senses out into the depths, to consider what we see and to take some responsibility for it also. Not only in these particular waters, but the larger interrelation of all life on this planet, aware of its first emergence and the potential of the future to come.

In the shallows, they change from inky black

to a milky shade of sandy-gray

Via a dappled movement of pattern, a field of elongated

stealth bombers, or self-propelled arrowheads

Iridescent. Momentarily streaked with gold

And turquoise. Eyes large

A small school, of twenty or so squid

Rise and fall together in the waves

Protected, almost invisible from above

Our first wonder. We swim out

The sun on our backs, as we turn

Toward the deeper edges of the reef

“Kairos Resounding: Julian Charrière & Laurent Grasso”, 798CUBE, 2026.

Note:

[1] Ovid, Metamorphoses Book 8, trans. Brookes More, Theoi Classical Texts Library, https://www.theoi.com/Text/OvidMetamorphoses8.html [all URLs accessed in February 2025].

[2] Keith Cowing, “Away Team Report: Unknown Species Discovered on a Deep-Sea Expedition to the Clarion Clipperton Zone,” Astrobiology, June 9, 2024, https://astrobiology.com/2024/06/away-team-reportunknown-species-discovered-on-a-deep-seaexpedition-to-the-clarion-clipperton-zone.html.

[3] Andrew K. Sweetman et al., “Evidence of Dark Oxygen Production at the Abyssal Seafloor,” Nature Geoscience 17 (2024), pp. 737–39, https://www.nature.com/articles/s41561-024-01480-8.

This article is republished with permission from the original eassy "Beneath" by Geraldine Kirrihi Barlow. Unauthorized reproduction is prohibited.

凯洛斯的回响：

朱利安·夏西埃赫、洛朗·格拉索

双个展

Kairos Resounding:

Julian Charrière & Laurent Grasso

2026.4.25 - 2026.8.30

策展人：张尕

出品：北京七九八文化科技有限公司

主办：798CUBE

由瑞士文化基金会上海办公室支持

地点：北京市朝阳区，798艺术区，创意广场，798CUBE

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