Three rounds of twenty minutes each. I did not get shots of all the action, but it was an exciting evening. What is better than enthusiastic young artists painting up a storm— in a lovely building, with noms and drinks? A tip of the hat to Art Battle Canada!
“Sequestering a mere 1/10 of today’s global CO2 emissions (less than 3 GtCO2) would thus call for putting in place an industry that would have to force underground every year the volume of compressed gas larger than or (with higher compression) equal to the volume of crude oil extracted globally by [the] petroleum industry whose infrastructures and capacities have been put in place over a century of development. Needless to say, such a technical feat could not be accomplished within a single generation.”
No doubt that’s why the pro-CCS debater, Barry Jones wrote “The international community aims to deliver 20 demonstration projects by 2020, applying CCS to various kinds of industrial sectors. The idea is that CCS then becomes a commercial reality and begins to make deep cuts in emissions during the 2030s.”
CCS simply hasn’t yet proven to be practical, affordable, scalable, and ready to be ramped up rapidly.
Even a very small leakage rate of well under 1% a year would render the storage system all but useless as a “permanent repository”.
I remember the chicken slaughter too. I was fascinated by the little bowl of yolks of removed, unformed, unshelled eggs. The golden treasure. Headless chickens running around is a tired trope, the reality a different thing altogether. At least those chickens had a life commensurate with one which -as a human- one would consider happy. (Mmm, maybe not…) I have warm fuzzy-wuzzy memories of collecting eggs, true, but I also remember the feathers and the smell, the “mean” rooster, the empty coop after the constrictor got in. Memories of slaughter day, of course. Tombola, the rooster I won at the school fair for five cents, did not escape it either.
Every time I think about the farm, a picture of a small acacia-flower-like-fluff-ball of a chick forces itself into my mind’s eye. That’s the chick whose little head I accidentally squished in the heavy hinge of the closing farm store door; there between the heavy bags of cornmeal it blinked at me with sad-bloodied eyes as I sank to the red clay floor in dismay. Cheep=cheep, it said, blinked away its ruby tears, and started pecking at something unseen.
What is it about a red balloon? Mmm: The classic 1956 Oscar-winning movie tells this story. The Redon balloon’s story is a lot older. His other work is just as interesting.
Behold his crying spider:
Maybe the spider is thinking of all the non-environmentally friendly effects of balloons, or of the use of Helium in balloons.
From the Odilon Redon Wikipedia entry:
“I have often, as an exercise and as a sustenance, painted before an object down to the smallest accidents of its visual appearance; but the day left me sad and with an unsatiated thirst. The next day I let the other source run, that of imagination, through the recollection of the forms and I was then reassured and appeased.”