top of page

mines 2

How can ancient seas make monuments and machines?

Long before the first hands struck stone against stone, the Earth was shaping its own treasures. In the crush of heat and pressure, in the slow churning of mantle and crust, minerals formed—crystals growing grain by grain, metals bound deep in rock. They traveled upward through volcanic fire, settled in seams, or were ground into sand by the patient work of water and wind. Every element, every fleck of ore, was the outcome of an ancient, restless planet.

​

Over eons, these raw materials drifted, collided, and reshaped themselves. Some became the bones of mountains, others the dust of plains. When humans arrived, we learned to dig, to pry, to melt, to forge. Copper wound itself into wires carrying our voices, iron became the skeletons of our cities, rare minerals became the beating hearts of our machines.

​

But each hole in the ground leaves a mark. Whole hills are cut away; rivers run clouded with tailings; communities bend beneath the weight of industry. The minerals beneath our feet are finite, their formation far beyond the scale of human history. What we take in decades was made over lifetimes of the Earth itself. And while our hunger for them has built the world we know, it has also carved deep scars into the one we depend on.

bottom of page