!["[Condor] 248. She was hatched on 8th of May 2001 and released on 16th of February 2002. She was the last mate to 227. Condor 196 was 227’s first mate – she disappeared and the next season he paired with 248 and a year later we recovered her in late](https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/5a48f475f09ca4c0b66f3997/1514736951816-LJRTU8NTD3P332JF7BDL/condor.jpeg)
Collaborating with artists Snaebjornsdottir/Wilson, this project gleaned from two years of site work explores cultural the networked effects of conservation in Arizona with focus on the California Condor and the Humpback Chub. Images and essays are in the accompanying book You Must Carry Me Now.
"Derrida explores the many resonances of Celan’s line 'The world is gone, I must carry you,' in the mode of carrying a child to term or bearing a dead body: that is to say, a form of responsibility to spectrality itself, to the 'not yet here' or the 'already gone,' the trace of which is materialized, as it were, in the bodies of these dead birds. In the absence of 'world,' and in the radically ethical act of being responsible in the absence of any such foundation art, versus philosophy, has a special role to play in constructing the 'as if' of a world of 'stabilizing apparatuses.'”
--Cary Wolfe in You Must Carry Me Now
"[Condor] 248. She was hatched on 8th of May 2001 and released on 16th of February 2002. She was the last mate to 227. Condor 196 was 227’s first mate – she disappeared and the next season he paired with 248 and a year later we recovered her in late November in the Utah territory. We thought they would nest too – we had them displaying in the same remote canyon where we found 299 dead last week. 248 we recovered, dead of lead poisoning buried under snow on 15th of December 2006… she had a GPS transmitter. I remember that trip, 48 miles of snowmobiling to get to her…"
"Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery."
-- Cormac McCarthy The Road