Like much of art and science, cartography follows a trajectory from ignorance to enlightenment, its propulsion the transformative curiosity that yearns to confront the unknown, to make the unknowable known: the land mass is dented and roughed by forests and mountains is later carved and lined by neighboring towns in territorial disputes is later pockmarked and sliced by river deltas, railroad tracks, city capitals. As our knowledge of the topography and geography grows clearer and more defined, the better we see where we are, the better we see where to go. The map is not the land, only an approximation of it, shaped by impressions and conjecture as well as precision instruments. The map never remains as is. It is constantly shifting. The grove becomes a dirt road becomes a monument. We return to the place to keep our charts up to date. It is necessary. The map is never an end, always a start.
Or in other words: there is Rage and there is Remembrance and there is Sympathy and there is Understanding.