This Serie consists of 7 works

My deceased father, Robert, would sometimes stare into nothing. I imagined he was thinking of the sea. A sea in the south — saturated with the brightest light. Perhaps he had stored it somewhere in his mind. In my memory, he stands in a small boat. With a fishing line, he pulls silver fish from the water — their brightness cutting sharply against his black hair and dark, sunburnt skin. With a cloth, he grips the writhing body and kills it against the edge of the boat. Calmly. Precisely. It is something he must have learned from his Dutch friend, Bas. We will all die, one day. Some more violently than others.

The Sea, Peter Weidenbaum, 2016