Permanent

When leaving my hometown, I most often head west. And since any distance west of Calgary is driving distance, I have come to know the highway well. The gentle sways that lead to Banff, the sharp turns before Golden that scrap the thought you had around Lake Louise about making good time. The tourist buses at Rogers pass and the earth toned bands of the Kamloops hillside before the straight, smooth width of the Coquihalla. But before counting off any of these familiarities, I scan the area past Bragg Creek for two simple, uniform shacks sprouted from the ground before the fields turn to foothills. My appreciation lies in recognizing, due to their solitary vulnerability, that they can only withstand prairie winds for so long. Once I see them I nod and press on, officially beginning my journey.

And each time my mind wanders towards the notion that no amount of faith in the future or study of the past can guarantee what will exist tomorrow. Every day we make subconscious assumptions about what is permanent, until we are reminded of how fragile even the most epic presence may be. The altered New York skyline is a testament to this; without knowing it, we assumed these buildings would always be there. The idea of permanence is easier to grasp within a given time frame; this highway was here when I was born, this bridge will be here when I die. Yet this method is contrary to the notion of permanence. We have no way of knowing what is eternal if we are not.

Urban environments seem permanent because steel and concrete seem absolute. Natural environments seem fragile because of certain characteristics belonging to organic matter; lakes swell and recede, trees grow and sway. Entire landscapes weaken under a thick snowfall, but return to life in the months to come. It seems as though anything that can change will be affected or altered, anything with mobility can be hindered or broken, and anything that can grow will eventually pass. Yet the natural environment doesn’t depend on us for creation and maintenance. Maybe what is truly permanent is what exists despite us, and what would flourish in our absence. Or perhaps permanence describes an idea and not a condition; maybe nothing can exist indefinitely, and acknowledging precariousness is a step towards ensuring that something doesn’t slip away.  Buildings are built with give to stand up against the elements: buildings move like trees.

We are all, in our own way, trying to endure. We talk of living on though our work and through our children. Engineers turn old into new and contractors and artists strive to create something that will last. Photographers are simply trying to capture what would otherwise be fleeting. But prints fade and negatives age. Photographs are no more permanent than the subjects they share.

I drove by these shacks 6 months ago. They were leaning towards Calgary. I drove by a month ago and they were gone. -Allie Jenkinson