har-ish

Hemingway’s old man meets a slightly more bewildering version of the sea. The jagged black shoreline looks almost like a row of sharp teeth, while the enormous blue body beside it resembles a whale or perhaps a wave that has briefly taken the shape of one. The tiny figure stands between these interpretations, dwarfed by something that refuses to settle into a single form. Is he facing the ocean, a creature, a cliff, or some enormous living thing? I rather like not knowing. The sea is allowed to be a whale today.