Boundaries of nature and form
Edges aren’t borders—they’re beginnings. This collection follows that split-second where one world becomes another: moss breaking stone, algae meeting tide, the place a building’s shadow dissolves onto grass. Every piece is a negotiation—sometimes a ceasefire, sometimes a charge. Pay attention to the join.
From the Curator
"Boundaries are rarely as fixed as they claim. Lichen sews fungus to algae, and a rock split by frost is stitched back by moss. Even concrete—supposedly the opposite of the organic—ends up pitted, colonised, eroded, softened into the landscape. These works don’t just show transitions: they make you feel the tension and the slow handshake between things that are supposed to repel."
by Thomas
Rhizocarpon reductum draws its own boundaries—polygonal, chalky, and precise. The black fungal lines between each lichen patch are natural equivalents to borders on a map, except these borders grow, shrink, and sometimes vanish with moisture and age. Every crack is a negotiation: territory won and lost, not by force, but by persistence.
by Thomas
Barnacles attach headfirst, cementing themselves to the rock for life. What looks like a crust is really a crowd, each Balanus filtering plankton using feathery legs. The green algae is more recent, a lush carpet over ancient stone. The tides erase and redraw these lines twice a day, but nothing is ever fully erased.
by Thomas
A tide pool is a contradiction in progress: neither wholly sea nor rock, but a temporary truce. Yellow and grey lichens mark where saltwater lingers longest, their pigments doubling as sunblock. The pool’s reflection is another edge—an upside-down landscape that vanishes with a ripple.
by Thomas
Red, black, green: tri-coloured lichen and algae on Triassic sandstone. Each colour is a niche, a different alliance of sunlight, salt, and desiccation. The fissures collect rain, but also salt. To cross from one patch to another is to change your rules for living.
by Thomas
Blagdon Lake’s shore is a geology lesson written in weeds and stone. Sandstone and shale, laid down by ancient seas, now support only the sparsest of grasses. Every stem is a wager on the wind and the thin, sandy soil. The edge between earth and water is never settled: it shifts with every storm.
by Thomas
Goblin Combe’s limestone is hardly more than a skin—too thin for trees, just thick enough for grass and moss. Jurassic rock, 150 million years old, gets cracked open by the roots of a species that germinates in months. The abstract ochre shapes echo the real patches of sunlight and dryness that mark out where anything can grow.
Each piece in this collection has been thoughtfully selected to create a cohesive visual narrative. Together, they explore themes of boundaries of nature and form.
Explore All Artwork