Are we redeemable? Humans, I mean. Up until the last few years, if you asked me this question, I would have answered, "Of course!" But now, the certainty of this response has been whittled down into uneasy silence. I'm not so sure anymore. Any student of history will tell you with alacrity the multiple and ongoing atrocities humans have engaged in over the millennia. Almost from the beginning of organized society, we have been murdering and torturing our fellow sapiens with glee. I'm sure hominids and neanderthals also took to clobbering each other whenever the opportunity arose. But despite the recorded evidence, I've always believed that deep in its heart of hearts, humanity wanted to be good, helpful, kind, considerate. I'm not sure I believe this any longer. Art hasn't changed this. It has cemented it more firmly. A new exhibition at the Vancouver Art Gallery takes the relationship between art and the environment as its animating idea. But in examining the concept, something else surges to the fore. Namely, that we've made a nightmare of things. Future Geographies: Art in the Century of Climate Change features 35 works drawn from the last quarter century. It is a big show — the ideas it tackles are global in their implications and impact. It's also big in another more literal sense, encompassing some of the most influential folks in the art biz, one of whom is John Akomfrah. The Ghanaian and British artist works in a number of creative disciplines, including documentary film. Vertigo Sea, Akomfrah's large-scale three panel installation, takes pride of place in the VAG show. First, a gentle word of warning. There is something about the convergence of beauty and horror in the piece that pierces the senses in the most profound fashion. Just as one is beguiled by the staggering beauty of the natural world, be it a whirling murmuration of seabirds or a pod of whales moving sleekly through the ocean, other elements enter, pulling you under the dark water. Beauty makes you vulnerable to the larger message of the work, sinking the experience so deeply into the conscious and unconscious mind that it refuses to budge. Even when you really want it to. There are so many things at work in the piece that one viewing probably isn't sufficient to take it all in, even in a practical way. The triptych of screens, moving independently of each other in the narrative flow and sometimes in concert, means that you spend time whipping your head back and forth so that you don't miss anything. Ideally, one should be able to see an artwork of this magnitude and power a great many times, but that too comes with some caveats of the emotional variety. In 'Vertigo Sea,' an unforgettable tale of grief On the surface, 2015's Vertigo Sea is a three-channel video installation. It makes ample use of archival footage from the BBC Studios' Natural History Unit, as well as images captured in different places around the globe, including the Faroe Islands and the Isle of Skye. Over the course of its running time, it makes tidal shifts, moving from nature documentary to literary exploration to something far greater than the sum of its parts. The literary works cited include Virginia Woolf's To the Lighthouse, Herman Melville's Moby-Dick, and Heathcote Williams's epic poem "Whale Nation." The latter two are both central to the work. Other key elements include the transatlantic slave trade and Argentina's Dirty War. While the whaling industry might not seem entirely related to the atrocities committed in the slave trade, the connective tissue between them is just that, tissue, flesh flayed out in enormous ribbons of muscle, sinew and veritable oceans of blood. In an extended interview with curator Johanne Løgstrup entitled Co-existence of Times — a Conversation with John Akomfrah, the artist explains his ideas: The connection between the whaling industry and industrialized, extractive capitalism is a direct line. The hunt for whales and their oil formed the b...