Commercial whale hunting was officially banned by the International Whaling Commission (IWC) in 1987. The IWC permits indigenous groups to hunt whales for food, but not to sell on.
Despite the ban, commercial whale hunting has nevertheless persisted under the guise of “scientific permits” and other legal loop holes.
Named after the tonnage of whale sold in Japan each year, 5560 serves as both evidence for, and protest against, the legal loopholes that allow for the commercial hunting and commodification of whales.
This project comes from a place of understanding that whale meat plays a vital role in the function of certain societies. In the case of the Japanese, whale meat was formerly a staple of public school lunches. Although the importance of whale as a source of lunch meat has since declined into insignificance, the moral ambiguity of its persistence in the Japanese school lunch program lies beyond the scope of this project.
Other communities, particularly indigenous communities, rely on whale hunting as a staple of their diet and lifestyle. The whale populations that these communities depend on have already been significantly depleted by commercial whaling efforts, and now are being further threatened by climate change and pollution. Those that depend on these whale populations have suffered further through restrictions applied universally by whale conservation efforts.
As commercial whaling efforts continue, these communities will further suffer the effects of a depleted source population and ever more restrictive anti-whaling measures. Without the legal means to fight these restrictions, these disadvantaged communities will be further punished for the actions of those commercial efforts.
Thus, the presence of this can, an uncanny reminder that whale meat continues to be sold as a commodity, serves as an abhorrent representation of the injustice caused by commercial whaling. The cylindrical shape and powerful red vibrance of the can evokes the image of “emergency button”, emphasizing the pressing urgency of the cause. The title, presentation and appearance of the project are all geared to invite intrigue and thus open a dialogue about the issues at hand.
In Conservation Science, the term flagship is used to describe charismatic species whose pedomorphic, extreme, or otherwise remarkable features allow them to serve as figureheads representing a conservational cause. Pandas, chimpanzees, whales, and slow lorises all serve as popular flagship species. While these flagship species can inspire large donations towards a cause, they serve the equally important role of bringing awareness to threats against their environment as a whole.
With this project I intend to study the efficacy of art as flagship for conservation awareness. With the art object, there is the potential to represent not only the cause of a single species, but larger, more conceptual conservational topics. The can of whale meat, simultaneously representing the cause of whale conservation and the larger, more nebulous
issue of commoditization as a concept, brings awareness to the problematic issues surrounding commoditization of the natural world as a whole.
Ultimately, I hope to utilize this project to explore the potential for art to be a vehicle for conservation awareness, the art object as a representation of a flagship species, and the use of art as a flagship to open a dialogue in otherwise opaque ideology.
Two months ago, I entered my new apartment to find that a minor fruit fly invasion had broken out, possibly due to some scraps left behind by previous roommates. I promptly set out to find traps, and what I found were these cheap apple-shaped cartons boasting a solid 1-star review on Walmart’s very own website. When I tried to find the name brand today I couldn’t find it (perhaps it was phased out of production).
The traps required water to catalyze a sickly sweet pungency that drew flies in, but would become toxic once ingested. Interestingly, the flies seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time sitting inert atop the containers without entering them. It felt as if I had just bought my flies tiny local hotspots to hang out at and get high off fumes. Inevitably, however, they’d drop in.
I kept the traps undisturbed for the four weeks allotted by the product’s instructions, and indeed during that time I saw a noticeable reduction of flies.
After four weeks, I opened each trap in childish glee to discover what lay inside. As I expected from reading the reviews, each trap had become a sordid breeding ground for maggots, yet as I also suspected from certain implications within the instructions, this breeding ground was to be expected; it was for this reason that the product recommended the trap be left out for 40 days.
Doubtlessly previous users grew impatient, opened their traps, and were disgusted by the half dead sluice of flies and maggots at various states of degradation.
Of the 100 traps I purchased, 95 were entirely dead, graveyards strewn with rotting flies and maggots.
4 still had some life in them, although it was clear the life was failing, with many dried out maggot husks feebly clinging to the sides.
The last one was a surprise. Not merely lingering, but flourishing in the gelid wastewater. The trap was shaped like an apple, and the maggot-strewn mess at the bottom took on the form of a star.
I was just sitting there, watching flies land on the internet. Anonymous lurkers attacking friends — imagine daggers buzzing.