By Callum 
Traces remain: fingerprints in soil, fossils in stone, whispers of life beneath what we see. Every footprint, every burned forest, every riverbed left bare—these are Earth’s signatures.
In 1992, Earth Traces painted memory itself. Soft shadows of glaciers that once crept across valleys. Patterns of rivers that carved canyons and then vanished. The bones of extinct creatures buried in mud. Echoes of seasons long past held in pebbles, wave-smoothed.
We walk on traces without seeing them. A seedpod cracks open where a seed once lay; an ancient shell embedded in sediment becomes part of the path. We build new layers on top, forgetting what lies beneath.
These Earth traces ask: if the planet keeps all this history, what will we leave? What marks will vanish, what will scar forever, what will become part of the forgotten strata?
To observe Earth Traces is to understand we are both child and vandal of this globe. We write on its surface. We erase. We build, simple as breath. And beneath every step, there are stories being buried or uncovered.