BODIES OF WATER: DESIGNING RESILIENT DIVE TOURISM THROUGH UNDERWATER SCULPTURE

As marine ecologies at global and local scales respond to the manifold impacts of global climate change, so too must the dive tourism industry adapt to new ocean dynamics. To be resilient in the face of ongoing change these adaptations are necessarily local, environmentally aware, and systematic. On Lanzarote, a volcanic island at the northern end of the Canary Island archipelago, tourism developers have long claimed a particular skill in implementing environmentally aware, adaptive tourism infrastructure projects on land. At the peak of package tourism development in the 1960s, Lanzarote’s tourism board invested in César Manrique’s particular brand of Modernist art-ecotourism. Thirty years later UNESCO designated Lanzarote a Man and Biosphere Reserve, celebrating the landscapes specifically highlighted by this socio-ecological synthesis. The development of Lanzarote illustrates how ideas of art, ecology, and value can cross oceans and alter environments. Now, with the installation of an underwater sculpture museum qua artificial reef called the Museo Atlántico, these Anthropocene tourism projects extend below the ocean’s surface. Using environmental history, participant observation, and ethnographic methods over a combined four months of field work between Lanzarote’s summer seasons in 2016 and 2017, this thesis details the ideals, policies, and aesthetics that underpin Lanzarote’s tourism infrastructure. Specifically, it interrogates the ways in which the Museo Atlántico contributes – or fails to contribute – to the resilience of coastal development on this arid, alien island. Without considering artificial reefs like the Museo Atlántico as development, conservation-motivated infrastructure installation can undercut the public review processes central to resilient design in the Anthropocene.

foreign objects. I find a small nudibranch, catch a sea of garden eels duck below the sand. The Museo Atlántico is alive, hosting tourists and schools of fish, cultivating algae and a specific politic. Its installation has economic, political and material consequences, altering the seafloor to a specifically human, designed end as an explicit project of the Anthropocene. 1 Parsi, "Deep Dive." Using striking sculpture, innovative construction methods, an environmental ethos, and the marine environment itself, artist Jason deCaires Taylor hopes to raise global awareness by redefining the importance and audience of artificial reefs. In a series of 'underwater museums' in development across the globe, Taylor sinks humanoid sculptures under the ocean's surface where they are visited by dive tourists and marine organisms alike. Each museum is unique and specific, both in content and ecology. The Museo Atlántico is his biggest installation yet, a "curated" multisculpture dive site that touches on the refugee crisis, smart phones, narcissism, childhood, and climate change, while simultaneously (Taylor claims) acting as an ecologically and economically productive artificial reef. 2 The Anthropocene, an epoch in which human activity has the capacity to alter geological processes, simultaneously incites a sense of responsibility for environmental degradation and, for some, inspires new tactics for growth in business and development. 3 In an era of global climate change, terrestrial and marine ecologies alike adapt or fail to adapt to new material conditions like temperature and acidity; in the Anthropocene, conservationists, developers, and local government officials seek new strategies to live and grow in changing environments and their related economies.
2 deCaires Taylor, "Threats." 3 Dr. Amelia Moore has established a framework for analyzing development and tourism in the Anthropocene, which "enables conceptual anxieties, productive contradictions, research opportunities, and entrepreneurial actions; it enables actors to configure an increasing amount of thought and action in the name of anthropogenic sustainability" (Moore, 2015, p. 4); see Moore, "Anthropocene Anthropology"; Moore, "Climate Changing Small Islands"; Moore, "Islands of Difference"; Moore, "Tourism in the Anthropocene Park?" In dialogue with Political Ecologist Aletta Biersack,4 Anthropologist Amelia Moore argues that this epoch requires new understandings of "collectivity and responsibility", whereby "engaging the discourses and processes enabled by the Anthropocene idea…transform[s] practices of life and work, knowledge produced about place and space, infrastructural aesthetics, and the evolving language available for subjectivation." 5 In this context, environmentally oriented actors hope that design solutions might simultaneously mitigate ecological impacts and encourage environmental stewardship of fragile offshore environments like coral reef communities. 6 Tourism developers, alternately, can now "rearticulate" fears of global anthropogenic change manifested by the Anthropocene as strategic opportunities to develop "greener" mass tourism. Ironically occupying more space and requiring more resources, these tourism ventures leverage tourist and government concerns around global climate change while creating "projects and imaginaries that stem from ideas about global environmental change to accumulate more space for tourism." 7 The Museo Atlántico is one such project.
This thesis describes the ecological, political, and economic consequences of the Museo Atlántico 's installation in Lanzarote's waters using ethnography, participant observation, and semi-structured interviews to better understand the social relationships of artificial reefs. Artificial reef installation is by no means a new phenomenon: shipwrecks, coastal revetments, and haphazard infrastructure have long 4 Biersack and Greenberg, Reimagining Political Ecology. 5 Moore, "Anthropocene Anthropology," 28. 6 For general movements in social design for purported environmental good, see Chen et al., "Social Design"; Fisher, Designing Our Way to a Better World; Simonsen et al., Design Research. For preliminary work on dive tourism, coral conservation, and design, see Meyers, "An Aesthetics of Resilience." 7 Moore, "Selling Anthropocene Space," 3. been deployed to attract fish or reinforce shorelines. Deployment of artificial reefs as recreational objects, however, is a new and rapidly proliferating global phenomenon.
It leverages consumer concern for threatened ecosystems like coral reefs alongside existing tourism and ecotourism economies to create new, "hybrid," development infrastructure. The Museo Atlántico illustrates how a recreational artificial reef project deploys its conservation or restoration components to overcome development or management obstacles. Considered to be more than a tourist attraction (as it is promoting or protecting the environment) and lacking the measured environmental standards of a formal conservation project, "hybrid" or "green" infrastructure cannot be regulated exclusively as either a conservation project or development infrastructure.

The entangled motivations and interpretations of the Museo Atlántico
installation have clear consequences for Lanzarote's regulation, politics, and human and non-human lives. Untangling those motivations, consequences, and steps forward in coastal management is a necessary project for a student of Marine Affairs tasked with making "theoretical and applied contributions to socially just, ecologically sound, and sustainable human-environment interactions" in the coastal margin. 8 Symbolically, the Museo Atlántico champions social justice by using local community residents as models to enhance public participation, but through this research it became apparent that there was little public consensus about how the Museo was conceived, approved, and installed. Conceptually, the Museo is designed to enhance "empty" coastal shallows as an artificial reef, but there has been little public science that demonstrates these submerged sculptures have their intended ecological effect without compromising existing eelgrass beds. So, how sustainableboth ecologically and socio-politicallywas the Museo Atlántico?
The Museo Atlántico There's no way to avoid confrontation with the sculptures at the Museo Atlántico, it seems: bluntly symbolic, they're designed for interpretation and engagement. Taylor is concerned with human rights and the refugee crisismigrants often arrive on straight to Lanzarote's shores straight from Morocco by boatso he recreates 19 th Century French Romantic painter Théodore Géricault's famed "The Raft of Medusa" with the bodies of refugees instead of survivors of a wrecked frigate ( Figure 3). He calls his reinterpretation, where the bodies of unnamed refugees from an unnamed state drape over the sides of an inflatable dinghy, the "Raft of Lampuseda" after an Italian island whose tourism industry clashed with a massive militarized police force assigned to deal with a migrant influx. 9 It's a stark image at the very beginning of the dive, and emotionally jarringmost dive briefings only describe the statue as a piece on the "tragedy of the migrant crisis," leaving the refugee subjects anonymously and inaccessibly memorialized at the bottom of the ocean. 9 Kirby, "Why Tourists Are Shunning a Beautiful Italian Island."

Figure 3: "Desconnectado" by Jason deCaires Taylor (Photo used with permission from Jason deCaires Taylor Studio).
Just around a bend Taylor takes on the narcissism and ignorance of the general public regarding, it is implied, the refugee crisis, shaving the faces off a couple proudly taking a "selfie" while oblivious to the refugees adrift in the background. In "Desconectado" (Figure 4), Taylor has expressed concern about social media narcissism and the migrant crisis in interviews and social media. These sculptures exactingly express his concerns and demonstrate his sense of global crisis. Most troubling, though, is perhaps the phenomenon of divers pausing to take their picture with the couple, eyes bright with the light of the flash and bubbles rising rapidly, like snow falling in reverse. Your time to contemplate the structures is limited, and divers snag a picture and move on. "The Raft of Lampuseda" is left behind, migrants forgotten once again. At the end of the dive there is no information about ways to address the crisis at a local, regional, or global level, no information about the types of displacement that have incited nationalism across Europe and the Globe. You're left to your own inquiry as the dive master urges you on to the "Rubicon," tapping her palm to ask how much air you have left.
Taylor's most expansive sculpture is "Crossing the Rubicon," an army of cell phone-obsessed people walking towards a "point of no return" symbolized by a giant wall with one small door ( Figure 5). People of all ethnicities and ages are wrapped up in their own worlds as they effectively walk off a cliff. Divers hover near the figures and move past these particularly ghostlike and condemned citizens. The wall itself is odd for Taylorthe thick pillars with vines linking them together are highly stylized and geometric, a step away from the detailed cast concrete sculptures he is globally recognized for. It marks one of his first forays into massive semi-interactive sculpture that divers can move through themselves with a certain amount of skill, which he will repeat with his "Coralarium" project in the Maldives (2018) and an undisclosed "Noah's Ark" project slated for 2019. These objects encourage the dive tourist to play and engage in a way they can't with the humanoid sculptures as "art" that tourists are asked not to touch. Museo and what to do next; no discernable head or tail. Artificial reef tourism is an attempt to bridge the gap between the destruction of coral habitats (caused by direct contact with tourism or anthropogenic climate change) and the tourist experience. Artificial reef researchers have rigorous but

Artificial Reef Tourism in the Anthropocene
inconsistent parameters for what counts as an artificial reef, with definitions describing a "submerged structure" of "human origin" that is "deployed on the seafloor" to "influence physical, biological, or socioeconomic processes related to living marine resources." 25 More contentious is whether the deployment was "purposeful" and "mimics the characteristics of a natural reef." Certainly, and increasingly, artificial reefs are a type of "modified space" capable of supporting wildlife populations commonly thought to reside in unmodified or "natural" settings. 26 Tourism researchers continue to investigate artificial reefs as a study of diver preference, to the extent that some claim the type of artificial reef (its material, 23  of support from the larger social-political system, the recent US economic downturn, and an invasive fish species disturbed the local industry. Sources of resilience include dive operators' formation of self-advocating organizations, recognition of an inexperienced and increasingly frugal client base, and local contributions to environmental protection. 33 Grove and Adey, "Security and the Politics of Resilience: An Aesthetic Response" They argue that "Paying attention to the aesthetic dimensions of resilience can thus help highlight ethical and political questions that might otherwise be passed over... [that an] , attention to the aesthetics of resilience recognises that resilience has no constitutive power of its own: it produces its diagrammatic effects only to the extent that it is able to appropriate affective relations and direct their force towards the production of a world of complex systems and the precarious subjectivities that inhabit these worlds." In other words, that if the performance of resilience, as a type of design aesthetic or set of norms, reproduces the static norms of governance that resilience planning is supposed to preclude. See also Meyers, "An Aesthetics of Resilience."

Tourism Infrastructures and Imaginaries
The Museo Atlántico 's success is contingent on support from Lanzarote's local government, which justified the project both as an investment in tourism infrastructure and an extension Lanzarote's historic commitment to environmentally sensitive design. Archipelagic regions like the Canary Islands, consisting of small islands and extensive marine territories, have very specific policy, planning and development requirements from tourism development to freshwater desalination plants. 34 These socioecologies are "aquapelagic," defined by: "human presence in and utilization of the environment…which wax and wane as climate patterns alter and as human socio-economic organizations, technologies, and/or the resources and trade systems they rely on, change and develop in these contexts. In this sense, aquapelagos are performed entities." 35 The Museo Atlántico is one such infrastructure performed entity, connecting Lanzarote's land and sea, connecting the Canaries to "the rest of Europe", and expanding the jurisdiction of the tourism board below the sea surface. Once exclusively regulated as part of Lanzarote's marine territory, protected under the United Nations Law of the Sea and marginally included in the island's UNESCO Man and Biosphere Reserve protections, the Museo Atlántico represents the extension of the tourism board, CACT, into marine governance, protection, and global conservation efforts. This part of the way in which the aquapelagic state has to configure its marine 34 As Dr. Moore and others argue, islands have long been conceived of as laboratories for new visions of the world and "are continually remade to fit this vision" of utopianist experimentation. At the same time, the islands became laboratories precisely because they were often subject to global networks of colonialism and globalization that altered island ecologies and economies. Lanzarote is no exception. (Moore,Destination Anthropocene,forthcoming,(11)(12) 35 Hayward, "Aquapelagos and Aquapelagic Assemblages." zones as "elements of an imagined national space and then translate this imagination into marine borders that could be nationally and internationally recognized." 36 The Museo Atlántico is an even more literal aquapelagic intervention, connecting Lanzarote to a global dive tourism industry dominated by actors from the Global North and performed through global media.
At this point Taylor's work constitutes a global phenomenon, an aquapelagic network of submarine infrastructure that redefines ocean space and marine ecology as much as it redefines marine tourism and ecotourism. Taylor deploys his distinct symbolic vernacular in different coral reef and marine ecosystems across the world, uniting these sites with his sculptural style, his unique political symbolism, and his brand (see a map of his installations above, Figure 6). Brian Larkin calls for a more attentive anthropology of the "poetics of infrastructure" that depicts how such networks and "forms of infrastructure can offer insights into other domains such as practices of government, religion, or sociality." 37 Taylor "gaiasociality" where we, the public, are "exhorted not to think of our individual connection to a population, not to our genes, but to the planet's ocean and to Gaia" as a part of a call to "reorganize [our] relations with the ocean." 41 Taylor and enthusiasts for his work see these installations as little less than a silver bullet, repairing the rifts between environmentalism and (mass) tourism by inspiring public engagement with the ocean. While technologically the Museo is meant to restore or reinvigorate the 38 Hall and Tucker, Tourism and Postcolonialism I am referring to the "Museo Atlántico" in Lanzarote, Canarias, the "Ocean Atlas" in Nassau, The Bahamas, and Taylor's newest installation, the "Coralarium" at the Fairmont Maldives Resort in Sirru Fen Fushi. 39 Cué, "Interview With Jason DeCaires Taylor"; Taylor, An Underwater Art Museum, Teeming with Life. 40 Larkin, "The Politics and Poetics of Infrastructure," 329. 41 Helmreich, Alien Ocean, 11. seafloor environment, it is also an "excessive fantastic object" (a la Larkin) that Taylor hopes will inspire tourist imaginaries of other, more hybridized and sustainable worlds as much as awe in its assumed ecological function as an artificial reef. 42 As a paradoxical anti-capitalist development project, the Museo manifests a modernist faith in infrastructure. The project calls upon a sense of agency and hope evoked by technologies like infrastructure that historians of (post)modernism Mrazek and Berman call an "enthusiasm of the imagination," or an "imaginative richness…ready to turn in on itself," respectively. 43

Methodology and Procedures
To holistically address issues of artistic intent, public perception, and marine ecosystem governance concerning artificial reefs, I conducted a mixed-methods exploratory case study of Jason deCaires Taylor During the summer of 2017 I conducted ninety-one total interviews, fifty of which were full-length semi-structured interviews that explored larger concepts at work in the Museo and forty-one of which were anonymous rapid response surveys of divers at a popular dive site to collect issue-oriented data quickly and with minimum response burden. There are no records listing the divers on Lanzarote, so stratified random sampling of these groups was not possible. Instead, interviews were opportunistic, as exhaustive as possible, and as inclusive as possible of all demographic groups. dive shops and distribute my allocation of dive funds across professional outlets for the sake of equity.
At these shops, visitors were asked to: describe their experience of the site; list themes they took away from the content of the sculptures; describe and justify how the site is "natural" or "artificial" and define their terms; describe their experience of the site in juxtaposition to other dive experiences; choose words that best describe their relationship to issues of sustainability before visiting the Museo (i.e. "Which of the following words best describe your feelings about environmental issues as a whole?: etc. etc."), and describe their understanding and potential concern about climate change; describe the prevalence of environmental themes in the artwork (i.e. "Did the installation make you think more about: climate change, plastic waste and garbage, marine biodiversity, social media, future generations, etc."). Other questions were included depending on how involved the participant was in the Museo Atlántico project, and whether or not the participant was a resident of Lanzarote. Chapter Three describes how, in the context of the development policies and plans for the island, the Museo Atlántico undermined public process and faith in Spanish democracy while branding itself as yet another eco-art installation rather than a tourism development project. Local community activism disrupts the easy implementation of the Museo project. The marine life of the Museo disrupts the intended or easy use of the installation, emphasizing the multispecies negotiations and actions increasingly characteristic of the Anthropocene. Together, these chapters argue that artificial reef installations must be considered exclusively as development before they are treated as conservation projects, insisting that any intervention in the environmenteven in the Anthropocenerequires due public process.  can simultaneously "portend a future, gesture towards the past, and condemn so many actions in the present." 60 Lanzarote has been designed to look un-designed, from its rugged landscape preserved by Manrique's land-use laws to the crystal-clear waters prized by divers and made possible by water quality regulation. Now, Lanzarote's tourism industry must adapt to a changing market and changing climate at the same time. Lanzarote must be re-designed as more resilient for a changing planet.

CHAPTER 1: Art Islands: Branding and Preservation of Island Aesthetics in the Canary Island Archipelago
Today, tour busses shuttle families of tourists from installation to installation, incentivizing road infrastructure development and pressuring the island's ecological systems. All-inclusive hotels dominate the coast, and ghosts of development projects loom over the desert landscape. Based on data provided by the World Tourism Organization (2004)

Figure 12: The Fundación César Manrique, tasked with maintaining Manrique's legacy, turned his first home on the island into a museum. Another lava tunnel has been converted into a series of small lounges and bar spaces (photo by author). For more images of Manrique's installations, please see Appendix A.
Manrique's vision of tourism leveraged islander identity and the specificities of Lanzarote's ecology to create a style of tourism defined in opposition to the mass tourism of other Canary Islands, at certain costs to traditional livelihoods. In this way, he was simultaneously a political actor in tourism development, a tourism developer acting politically, and a designer with a specific philosophy and aesthetic. 82 Manrique is often quoted for his brave anti-development rhetoric, standing in the face of local authorities and protecting the environment with his radical land ethic:

UNESCO'S Man and Biosphere Program
The effect of the "art island" approach to tourism branding on local were not emblematic of "paradise", not altered to obscure the local ecology, but designed to emphasize difference. The art island is a designed, fraught landscape, to be sure, but one that hoped to center an "authentic" sense of place at the center of its brand. Within Museum Studies, a burgeoning field in Cultural Studies, scholars might consider the Museo a "post-museum," an "emancipated" experience which liberates the content and viewer from proscriptive curatorial and learning styles through experiential learning that expands public participation in science. 108 Education scholar Richard Watermeyer calls the "post-museum" part of a postmodernist "Interactive Turn" that is either part of a "Disneyfication" or "distraction machine" Museum environment, or a specific pedagogy that recognizes the variable social positions of people who enter post-museum space and inevitably leave with different interpretations of that experience. 109 Anita Maurstad argues that the materiality of museums opens up these different interactions with museum objects, as much as experts try to contextualize those objects (through narration, text, dioramas) in ways they think can only result in specific interpretations by the audience. 110 The Museo 106 Taylor, An Underwater Art Museum, Teeming with Life. In addition, Taylor's team note that "behind the scenes museums involve research into different cultures and preservation of objects from ages past or foreign lands. In this way, the underwater museums are no different…" Is this abductive parallel supposed to imply the power of the Museo Atlántico to create opportunities for marine ecology research, or that the project is memorializing and othering the marine spaces colonized by Taylor's projects? 107 "Overview," An Underwater Art Museum. 108 Hooper-Greenhill, Museums and the Interpretation of Visual Culture, X. 109 Watermeyer, "A Conceptualisation of the Post-Museum as Pedagogical Space," 2. 110 Maurstad, "Cod, Curtains, Planes and Experts"; Hubard, "Complete Engagement." refers to these standards for terrestrial museums and capitalizes on the cultural cache of the museum in "the West" to draw tourists attention to environmental issues.
But close attention the infrastructures and experiences surrounding the implementation of the Museo reveals that this post-museum comes at certain costs, both literal and ephemeral. There is a museum entrance fee, an "entrance", and an "exit," and specific symbolic content the artist has declared relevant to the experience of the dive site. The Museo, and the dive professionals who guide you through it, are tasked with facilitating the tourist's interaction with the marine world in a way that evokes particular messages and meaning. This is the content dive professionals are required to study and recite to clients before leading dives at the Museo, much as docents facilitate engagement with works of art of enhance your appreciation of a piece. Taylor thus restructures experiences of marine space through physical and symbolic interventions. The other "cost" of these installations that has to be justified is the insertion of these art objects into delicate marine ecologies; for Taylor, these sculptures justify themselves as ecologically productive catalysts, creating opportunities for fish, algae, and in some cases, coral, as artificial reefs.
The second explicit claim made of the Museo Atlántico is that the project serves the environment by reducing damage to other dive sites while acting as ecologically productive artificial reef habitat for marine flora and fauna. Made of pH neutral concrete used for Reef Balls and organized in formations "tailored to suit endemic marine life," the Museo claims to be "designed on a conservational level." 111 The "wide reaching benefits" of Taylor's works include "working with and enhancing the marine environments they are placed in", as well as the ability to "boost diversity" by providing substrate for algae and coral as well as habitat for fish, crustaceans, and invertebrates. 112 Local officers from CACT promoted that they consulted with marine biologists from the local university, an environmental impact assessment contractor, Dracaena, and local geologists before installing the Museo, and that they operated within the constraints established by those assessments. 113 There are no publicly available studies that attest to the efficacy of Taylor's sculptures as ecologically productive, though private research commissioned by the tourism board and conducted by Dracaena demonstrated a doubling in "biodiversity", three times the "ecological abundance", and four times the density of algal growth on the Museo Atlántico between pre-operational and operational assessments. 114 CACT representatives I spoke with also noted a 5 kg increase in biomass growth, but all this information was provided without a description of the methods used by the consultants who produced the report. Three years after the project "broke ground" in 2015, CACT is promoting an eelgrass restoration project conducted with the University of Las Palmas de Canarias that will move the Museo into its next phase as "a natural laboratory for the investigation of life on our coasts." 115 Before this restoration project, CACT suggested Museo might function autonomously as an artificial reef.
112 "Overview," Environment, Art, and Activism. 113  where the politics of environmentalism on the island align with the political 121 This tourism official described "sustainability" as necessarily connected to development, such that "It is impossible to make something sustainable if you just pay attention to the environment. It has to be sustainable in the social and economic point of view as well." This is distinct from other development patterns for him, "the same system that existed everywhere, during the 1960s in Spain", because "the way it was developed was by building, like, huge towers in front of the beach without paying attention to the seafront and things like that. So that is the easiest because that's the way it has been done through the years, so I don't want to say that it's difficult to develop sustainably but it is [difficult] because that's not the way we've done it through the years." 122 All of Lanzarote's tourism is expected to gear itself toward independent tourism, highlighting Lanzarote's "culture, gastronomy and sport." The Minister for Tourism declared that they "do not need more tourists, but better ones; in tune with [Lanzarote's] uniqueness as a destination and to leave more spending on the island…[we need promotion] based on excellence, that is, quality versus quantity."  Immersion in the ocean inverts terrestrial anthropocentrism through technological mediation and new requirements for managing one's own body. That is, when a human dives they become something of a cyborg. Even a reflex as immediate as breathing is transformed "through a circuitry that includes humans, science, technology, and nature in a 'body-incorporated.'" 131 Their scuba diver is made "morethan-human" through her confrontation the im/possibility of submerged human life.
Through the act of immersion, Pickens and Ferguson propose, the scuba diver can be 128  But the Museo is only intended for a certain type of body. If feminist phenomenologies argue every subjectivity is necessarily unique, creating subcategories of experience, labor, and culture, it becomes impossible for any tourist to derive the implicit messages Taylor has etched into his silent sculptures. A diver's uniquely constituted worldview might interpret a sculpture differently, or be distracted by a part of the dive experience more salient to them. For Taylor, however, the Museo is a space for a certified dive tourist with enough disposable income to afford an additional surcharge on their dive, able to interpret Taylor's sculptures from his culturally specific set of symbolic cues. Lanzarote residents, many of whom do not or cannot afford to dive, are the Museo's most accessible public and least frequent visitors; the Museo has no plan to certify residents in SCUBA and turns Lanzarote's public into potential consumers before it recognizes them as the primary backers of the installation. Even as the Museo opens up to uncertified divers supervised by instructors, Taylor forgets how overwhelming a skill like diving is to learn; this emphasizes the aspects of the Museo that are driven by profit, not public education.
The Museo Atlántico public object that claims to contribute to a public good, but access to the project is exclusive and mediated by socioeconomic, material, and phenomenological difference.

The Museo Atlántico, as experienced Tourists
Divers on Lanzarote justified their visits to, or explicit avoidance of, the Museo Atlántico by describing what they value in a dive experience, highlighting ecological features, economic barriers, and personal aesthetic preferences. Of the 80 divers interviewed, 25 were dive professionals and 55 were dive tourists. Of those interviewed, 62% of divers identified as male, and 38% of divers identified as female.
The average age was 39 years old, from 18 to 66 years old. The majority of interviewees (85.5%) came from across Europe, with the rest coming from the United States, South America, Australia, and Hong Kong. While these divers are a small proportion of the record-breaking 176,644 diving visitors to Lanzarote in 2017, let alone the 3 million total visitors to the island, they provide crucial insights into motivations to, and experiences of, visiting the Museo Atlántico. 137 Emerging from divers' general satisfaction with the project were concerns about artificiality, ecotourism, climate depression, and the reorientation of the dive experience.
The Museo's artificiality was a critical point of contention for divers, attracting some and repelling others, impacting divers' willingness to pay and the experience of the dive itself. Taylor's installation politicized divers' site preferences, creating new categories of consumer that also aligned with categories of gender and experience.
First and foremost, many novice divers were eager to consume the novel Museo Atlántico because the whole experience of diving remained, itself, novel. These divers didn't perceive the site as unnatural as much as "yet another thing to experience in the world of diving." They enthusiastically noted the fish life that aggregated around the statues, and the eerie or serene qualities of the site. Many who review the Museo positively called it "very aesthetic." At the very least, it is apparent that the appearance of the installation was striking. More often than not, divers would pull out their 137 Lanzarote Guidebook, "RECORD BREAKER Tourist Arrivals Top 3 Million in 2017" The UK accounted for 46% of all tourist arrivals (1,452,141), dwarfing the next largest market Germany with 15% (474,587), both of which nations have large dive communities. Package deals made up 62% of bookings, but the independent sector boomed with a 1.2 million arrivalsa 65% increase from 2010.
GoPros to show me their selfies taken underwater. These often did not include artwork in them, just the diver surrounded by a blue halo glittering with sardines. Photography of dive sites can cause different levels of damage depending on diver skill level. 138 Divers often noted that the Museo is "something you should experience once in a lifetime"; whether that is because the dive is special, novel, connotes a certain approach to diving or some other quality that might make a diver restrict the number of times they dive on an artificial reef site.
For others, the submersion of the sculptures was crucial to their experience and interpretation of the Museo. One diver endorsed the transformations the seascape had on the object, where "because [the Museo] is man-made, and it's standing underwater, if you had the same statues on land it wouldn't have the same effect, for me." One diver found it "strange to see the manmade turning into life. I'm not an arty sort of guy but what the art is trying to do is quite cool, especially for someone who loves nature.
I've dived artificial reefs across the pacific that come to life, but they are usually battleships. The Museo adds more of a personal touch." The symbolism of the intervention speaks for itself. Many found the "topics" of the sculptures "meaningful," "magic," "full of atmosphere and poignancy," and a "very humbling experience." A few divers returned multiple times to fully capture the experience. One younger diver "dove it twice because it's so spooky. I almost ran out of air last time I was so immersed." The submarine context, artwork, and recreational experience all synchronize to affectively communicate the surreal and timeless issue of climate change and human narcissism. As Taylor intended, the situation of his sculptures added a new layer of significance discernable by the diver.
However, more experienced and older divers disavowed the Museo. This population is made up of divers who regularly dive, have a certification level above Advanced Open Water, or have dived over a long period of time. Those cohorts described "not needing to go again" and the site as "not for [them.]" They dive to explicitly remove themselves from encountering society, intervention, and artifice.
One long-time instructor observed:

"A lot of people, almost everybody likes the museum. But what they always say is 'I'm actually there to see fish' -They prefer to see life. Some people...refuse, they're just against these types of things. I don't know why that is. People have the feeling that the sea is neutral and nobody has the right to put anything in. And on land, we're used to it. To build a house you build it, but in the sea, some people say, 'it doesn't belong there.'"
In this case, the Museo intervention dissuades some divers from ever even engaging its content. They perceive the Museo to interrupt their understanding of fluid phenomenology and connection with the marine environment. One regular visitor to Lanzarote extended a certain preservationism to the entirety of the island, noting that "The other CI are all high rises and yelling. Here on Lanzarote there are only colorsgreen, blue and brown." He continued, "There's nothing like it but I'd prefer to dive it alone. With people there, cameras and big groups, it's not so peaceful." Some divers, exclusively male, described themselves as "not an art person" when qualifying their experience of the Museo; some enjoyed the dive despite a familiarity with art or museum spaces, and others remained uninterested. Regardless, the treatment of art as an object deserving attention at the expense of other aspects of the dive irked divers with more experience.
The insertion of the Museo as an art object to focus on, with a value assigned to experiencing and interacting with that art, disrupted the typical phenomena of the dive experience. Dive Instructors, constrained by their assigned time slot and set dive path, herd divers from one sculpture to the next, tapping on tanks to draw stray divers back to the route. Typically, the dive experience is more exploratory, with divers taking time to explore nooks and crannies, expanding their awareness in four directions: in addition to their awareness of distance forward, depth above and below, and horizontal exposure to currents and moving fauna, divers must also attend to sound, which moves 4.3 times faster through water. Denser than air, water transmits vibration energy so much more quickly than air that sounds made behind the diver can appear to come from in front of the diver. However, the Museo's structure encourages the diver to focus on sight and symbolic interpretation over the meandering multisensory exploration that is the crux of diving a "natural" site. Unique to the Museo Atlántico is the pressure dive professionals feel to make sure that each diver sees all of the sculptures curated for the site, meeting the diver's expectations for their Museo Atlántico experience. While a divemaster ideally never leaves the group underwater to bring a panicked diver to the surface, they may do so if working with a group of experienced divers, leaving them to explore a different area, or allowing them to explore in pairs for the entirety of the dive. The Museo, however, demands that divemasters chauffeur their clients through a specific path to make certain degree of narrative sense, as well as to protect the sculptures. In addition, dive shops are only allowed to be on site their scheduled time slots, packed one after another in about thirty-minute intervals. If the dive is completed in an abnormal order, dive groups from different shops will collide. This occasionally results in divers switching groups only to surface with a totally different dive shop or straying far enough from the designated path to get lost. Being bound to the narrative experience and content of the Museo Atlántico dive radically alters the epistemological parameters underpinning fluid phenomenologies. For the Museo to "make sense" dive instructors must brief divers on the meaning of the sculpture's symbology and guide their divers along an exact, crated path for the Museo Atlántico 's concepts to make sense.
The Museo encourages divers to expect a specific set of images in order to evoke a specific set of ideas and concerns about global environmental change for divers. Unlike César Manrique's installations, which highlight Lanzarote's existing environment by enhancing human access, the Museo Atlántico alters the marine environment by installing human objects through a relatively exclusive type of recreation. One CACT authority was confident the Museo's purpose, that it is: "specially designed for promoting the diving in the island. Okay so many people say that, 'Well it is a pity you have to learn to dive to see the museum because I cannot dive.' The question is, you have to learn to dive, so that we can be aware of what's going on below the sea level and seeing what happens there. There is no excuse, we are surrounded by sea but sometimes we live with our backs to the sea." The Museo Atlántico, and all of the life that aggregates around it, is summoned to perform Anthropocene environmentalism to educate Lanzarote's tourists. One CACT official believes this experience can demonstrate for visitors the dependence of coastal tourism on marine resources, where because "many of the resources we have come from the sea…we've got beaches, we've got sea water…the development on land depends on the sea, this is as Jason says, like a portal." For older divers, however, the unaltered dive experience was already a portal transformative enough on its own and encouraging of exploration and autonomous inquiry. This mandate and pre-defined narrative is sometimes annoying for more experienced divers who value the agency and interaction cultivated by unaltered dive experiences. One diver remarked, "When I dive I prefer to be surprised, see things I don't expect. At the Museo, there is something you have to look at. In two years with even more life there will be more to look at, maybe that will make it better." This diver remained more interested in bioaccumulation than the sculptures themselves.
Multiple divers expressed frustration or anxiety when they realized they only had one shot to see all of the sculptures. Multiple divers avoided these concerns and booked multiple dives at the Museo so they could experience the same sculptures in different conditions, or more commonly to switch the type of underwater camera they were using to document the site. The diver who ran out of air because she was so immersed in the dive, by contrast, took on risk to "complete" the divea foreign concept to a practice where the length of the dive is usually determined by the body's dependence on air. While scuba technology extends the time a diver can be underwater, bodily dependence on air and the absorption of nitrogen into body tissue still limit the human capacity to "be immersed." One dive guide even preferred to share air with her dive client, a risky practice that usually marks the end of a dive and return to a reliable air source, than finish the dive early because there was a set itinerary of sculptures to see to complete the curated dive path.
For others, the erasure of statue detail by algae and sand presented a loss in value to the dive. The entry fee for dive tourists is 12 Euro, funding security boat maintenance, security guard salary, the maintenance and debt on the Museo, and recouping the costs of the Museo. In addition, a single digit percentage of entry fees goes towards conservation and research efforts regarding the Museo and Lanzarote's marine ecology. For some, they consider the interaction between installation and ecology worth the price of admission. For others, they are paying to see the sculptures themselves. Much like the dive tourists disappointed with the overgrowth of the statues, dive professionals who have lived with the Museo were simply disappointed in the material process of change around the sculptures. One notes:

"I love the [Museo Atlántico], what the guy did. What I don't like about it…I saw it from the beginning, I saw the statues -you can't believe the details he put in it. You can see the skin, stitching. But that's all gone, and that's what we want. You can't clean it, it's an artificial reef. But that's a shame in one way. The time he spent on it, the detail, you can't see."
The ecological development Taylor identifies as the central component of the artwork frustrated tourists, dive professionals included, who wanted to see something human installed underwater. The novel dive experience of visiting the Museo, or perhaps Jason deCaires Taylor's brand value, as more valuable to divers than the sculptures' material relationships with Lanzarote's shallow water ecology.
A debate within a family of divers highlighted this contrast in dive preference.
The mother was a "little disappointed. Naked sculptures and naked light would have made the sculptures less mediocre because the detail vanishes, and the algae is scarflike [referring to the way the algae obscures features]." After realizing this, the mother described paying more attention to the marine life. Her daughter reprimanded her, saying she should have "focused on the sculptures because they were the whole point of the dive! I appreciated the drowned refugees -if you don't realize that's what they are it loses some political...power." To get the explicit symbolic content of the sculptures and their connection to Lanzarote, the mother said, "you'd really have to analyze the sculptures"; she found this process of analysis to interrupt the dive. For the daughter, this was the explicit purpose of visiting the Museo in the first place.
An additional disruption to diver satisfaction for some divers was the experience of growth conditions and symbolic messaging as "eerie" or scary. One frequent visitor to the island said "I don't see any happiness. It is a little bit dark. But I don't want to say I don't like it, I think it's great. The people in the playground that is a little bit of fun. But other things are a little bit…dire." Another diver gave the Museo one star on Google Review, saying that it was a bad dive because it "gave him a dismal impression." 139 Another called the Museo "quite disturbing and creepy today, [as] there was very little sunlight." The critical messages embedded in the Museo reduced the recreational value of their experience for some divers.
A majority of the divers who were not interested in diving the Museo cited its expense, as the entry fee places an uncommon additional economic burden on the diver. The cost of admittance, 12 Euro, is added to the average cost of a single dive, not including gear rental, about 42 Euro on average. One experienced diver criticized those who say the Museo is too expensive and not worth the benefits of visiting the sculptures, accusing them of not recognizing the embedded costs of dive tourism. He implies that divers should be ready to pay for infrastructural amenities local government actors construct to improve dive experiences since dive tourists are signaling that they want the dive industry to be accessible to them by being there. An additional charge for a unique dive site (an important conservation habitat with limited dive capacity, a state park site, or even a base tourism tariff) is not actually an uncommon phenomenon in dive pricing. World-renowned sites with high demand like Sipadan, a volcanic mount off of Borneo, or even diving in Lanzarote's own Marine Biosphere Reserve off of La Graciosa, often include additional charges to cover monitoring and patrol staff, conservation and scientific research expenses, and other regulatory costs. These charges effectively privatize a common pool resource to reduce traffic or over-exploitation.
The Museo Atlántico, marketed as a specific dive experience for almost any level of diver, has altered the quality and type of diver that visits Lanzarote. One instructor summarized groups of divers he identifies on Lanzarote: those that never want to visit the same site twice, those that can visit the same site ten thousand times those that have never dived before but see the Museo on television and demand an experience. For those divers, an instructor can bring them down to a limited depth and hold on to them as they explore the Museo.
The Museo Atlántico as a specific underwater attraction alters dive industry dynamics. Divers who haven't dived in years, or who might otherwise not have visited Lanzarote, come to the island with specific expectations for their experience of the marine environment through the Museo Atlántico. One instructor laughed, "the funny thing is, almost no one would arrive here without a diving license and [demand to] see Flamingo Wall," a popular dive site in Playa Blanca. 142 The Museo attraction, however, creates the assumption that any tourist will be able to easily experience and consume the Museo any time they visit; the installation was designed and promoted to be consumed in a particular way, with expectations established through the Museo's promotion on social media and European television. These promotions imply easy access to the site to many visitors; a tourism official was surprised that "There's still a lot of people who think that because it's a museum that they can go there, because a museum you just pay an entrance fee and you're in." 143 To an astonishing degree for some dive professionals, tourists will come to the dive school and demand training to see the Museo. These interruptions, beneficial to the economy as they may be, alter the experiences of the people teaching dive classes, leading tours, and interacting with the Museo almost every day: Dive Professionals. 142 Interview, Dive Instructor, DCL. 143 Interview, CACT representative.

Dive Professionals
Scuba diving is often promoted as a way of getting to know nature, submerging divers in a surreal world and connecting that physical experience to environmental stewardship. For the dive professionals responsible for the training and safety of novice divers, their work is a balance of risk assessment, stewardship, and making the marine environment legible to landlubbers. A self-described "tribe," divemasters and instructors are globally nomadic polyglots, moving between paradisiacal dive industry hotspots in response to their perceptions of shifts in global dive politics and the global dive industry. Sometimes changing local culture or local labor markets along the way, 144 dive professionals manage expectations and imaginaries of the local environmentor else find ways to make the marine environment meet expectations.
Their relationship with the environment is simultaneously experienced as stewardship, extraction, and care. At the Museo Atlántico, dive instructors struggle to meet the expectations both of divers and the objective of the installation, challenged to follow a specific agenda and curated route in an ecology more typically defined by fluid, random encounters.
Asked to act as museum docents and explorers at the same time, these adventure leaders create a new category of ecological labor of co-existent exploitation and conservation. Working with, on, and around nature as part of extractive industries is a way of knowing nature intimately. As Richard White described in in seminal article, "Are You an Environmentalist or Do You Work for A Living," the tendency for environmentalists to associate work with environmental degradation can connote classist and privileged modes of environmental interaction: "Environmentalists so often seem self-righteous, privileged, and arrogant because they so readily consent to identifying nature with play and making it by definition a place where leisured humans come only to visit and not to work, stay, or live." 145 But work and play both, Elaine Scarry notes, involve an extension of our sentient bodies out into the external world. 146 Dive instructors unite these physical modes of understanding landscapes and ecologies in a specifically marine context which, our feminist phenomenologists argue, is itself an entirely different phenomenological category. As such, Helen Rozwadowski juxtaposes the concepts of 'work' and 'play' as critical categories for knowing nature and the marine environment. The critical category of 'work' becomes a way to match bodily effort against the materials of one's habitat, gaining intuitive understanding of a specific ecology and often in the name of conservation-as-recreation. 147 For the marine environment specifically, work and play are 'inextricably connected' and sometimes 'indistinguishable' due to the technological mediation required to explore below the surface. 148 Dive professionals describe themselves as "nomads," a "tribe," "ocean warriors" or "stewards" more than laborers. Predominantly coming from the global north, instructors (certified to train and certify beginner to divemaster students) and divemasters (certified to lead dives and provide support to instructors) are drawn to the 145 White, "'Are You and Environmentalist or Do You Work for a Living?': Work and Nature," 173. 146 Scarry,Resisting Representation,52. 147  Many dive professionals moved to Lanzarote speculating that dive tourism has increased on the island due to shifting global politics, particularly unrest in the Middle East. The Canary Islands and Egypt are considered "local" dive sites for Europeans, many of whom keep second or retirement homes in this Saharan archipelago. One instructor noted that: "Lanzarote was not a famous dive destination to be honest. If you look at the hours flying, maybe four hours from Northern Europe, you can also go in four hours…to Egypt, which is really...much more colorful, more fish.

(But now) we are busy because Egypt (was) a big diving country, and now people are nervous about going to Egypt…That brought a lot of people as well, the problems in the world -together with the Museo."
And one young diver, new to the island settled on Lanzarote because "Now, all the Canary Islands are top world destinations, in 5, 10, years will be even more so.
Because of the fighting in the Middle East -tourism won't go to Egypt for dives. It will come here instead." His perception of this changing global condition, much like climate change, motivated his decision to move to the island.
Climate change itself was notably not a concern for most dive professionals.
Despite Jason deCaires Taylor Some laughed that sea level rise would "make more interesting sites to dive on the island." Other hypothesized that changing ocean temperatures might bring more megafauna or even coral to Lanzarote. One divemaster who had worked in environmental education said that "climate change is the last thing Lanzarote should worry about," prioritizing freshwater access and expanding recycling on the island instead. 151 Passionate as many dive professionals claim to be, many of the divemasters and instructors interviewed did not recognize the impacts of global climate change on the marine environment or their livelihoods. To this extent, many dive professionals 151 Interview, divemaster, NSD.
were not regularly inspired by the Museo, as an educational art project, to political action.
For those who choose to make their play into their work, it is often a case of pursuing one's pleasure less than one's politics. One dive instructor trainee had just quit the lucrative commercial dive industry assisting with oil rig construction to instruct tourists. "I want my hobby to be my work," he noted. "SCUBA is a popular job because it's fun, because people love the diving lifestyle, travelling, meeting people. There is a lot to love about diving on Lanzarote, lots of marine life, lots of different types of site -even tech diving... Life is easy on Lanzarote. There's a family of divers…it's a great place to learn to teach." 152 Dive professionals are in this sense tourists, seeking leisure as much as a livelihood. Alternately, these are the sorts of professional amenities any job-seeker might consider before committing to a new location. The Museo Atlántico, then, becomes another professional amenity. Many expect that it would keep dive shop revenue up and be an added professional benefit on resumes. One instructor lauded the dive community on Lanzarote and mentioned that "the Museo only makes it better." 153 Dive professionals certified to lead dives at the Museo do, however, extract extra benefits from the Museo's development.
The Museo Atlántico divides the Lanzarote's dive community into those eligible or ineligible to guide dives at the Museo, attempting to enforce specific modes of environmental interaction at the Museo through the Ecodiver Guide (EDG) training.
The EDG training is a day-long seminar during which CACT can explain the idea narrative and framework with which to prepare dive tourists. To lead a dive at the Museo, divemasters and instructors must complete a lecture unit explaining the curated path through the site, get a tour of Taylor's still functioning studio, and finally dive the site as a group. The lecture is effectively a formal analysis of each statue tied to environmental themes. Take, for example, this sculpture entitled "Deregulated": The CACT official teaching the EDG seminar might say: "This sculpture comes at the end of the tour and is with a group of other statues. As you can see, they are business men riding various playground objects like see-saws and swings. If you look closer, you will notice that all the playground toys are oil jacks. These businessmen are playing with our oil and our energy as if they were toys, and it is called "Deregulated" because it is the lack of regulation that lets them get away with these games. This is one of the last sculptures, so be careful to make sure that your clients have enough air to complete the safety stop at 5 meters." While perhaps a somewhat blunt analysis of the symbolic content of the work, these descriptions are designed to give dive instructors a vocabulary with which to express the politics of the artwork regardless of their experience with immersive post-museum art installations. The briefings are meant to be recited as close to verbatim as possible to make sure that dive tourists experience the art "accurately." Each description of each set of sculptures is nested within the practical dive planning that divemasters do to mitigate risk during the dive, like to watch out for certain types of wildlife, be aware of diver impacts on the surrounding environment, or manage diver stress. One instructor who retired to Lanzarote after a decade of conservation work abroad believed these EDG certifications weren't high enough, saying "If you're gonna have an Ecoguide title it should have more education. We have a misconception that divers know everything about the ocean, and I think there's still a lot to be taught about how to respect the environment and deal with the different conditions." While the EDG training satisfies CACT's standards for understand the Museo's political ecology, it has little to do with teaching dive professionals about the rest of Lanzarote's marine ecology or providing actionable sustainability initiatives for dive professionals or dive tourists.
Rarely, however, did dive professional briefings or performance meet the specific standards of CACT's EDG training. Across dive shops, across instructors, briefings were highly variable. Referring to the Museo map (Figure 14), dive professionals explained each sculpture in their own way and time, often focusing on different aspects of the dive. Some would emphasize the fauna that had taken up residence in certain areas of the installation, while others expanded on the political commentary of the sculpture. Some instructors found the sculptures to be helpful tools with which to communicate with their clients, lauding the device, "The Museo someways is about our dirty world, about politics. I don't care for politics. The design explains in a good way, with sculpture." Much like Genese Sodikoff's descriptions of "The Low-Wage Conservationist," these dive profession blur the line "between "implementer" and "target" of development intervention in a Biosphere Reserve space. 154 Sodikoff describes how reliance on cheap local labor in conservation area perpetuates the behaviors and activities that endanger the ecosystem being conserved; she demonstrates how low-paid manual workers in a Biosphere Reserve in Madagascar create conservation and tourism value by discovering species while "unintentionally perpetuating the conditions of habitat endangerment." 155 Dive professionals are not only passed the burden of articulating the environmentalist message of the Museo, but also ostensibly responding to the sculptures as environmental stewards on the island. Often, their logistic responsibilities get in the way of promoting environmentalist messages, or even acting sustainably at all.
Dive professionals are the site at which environmentalist messages and hard truths are fumbled, delayed, dropped, or transmitted; dive professionals minimize the 154 Sodikoff, "The Low-Wage Conservationist," 443. 155 Sodikoff,443. critical and dire message of the Museo in their dive briefings, swept up in a pressure to profit by efficiently teaching and processing as many dive tourists as possible. 156 On a logistical level, some dive shops fail to adjust their own workflow to the strictly timed schedule of the Museo's security boat and management office. Many arrived late for their slots, accommodating older, slower divers or newly certified ones in their own time and were admonished by CACT. While making these sorts of accommodations is a critical part of a dive education practice, they did not necessarily align with the efficiency goals of Museo management and instructors were pressured to move faster.
Using more gas to meet their entry time and cutting the dive briefings where divemasters have the opportunity to explain sustainable practices short, create environmental problems while simultaneously engaging the Museo's "environmentalist" experience.
Additionally, embedded in the design of the Museo are structural challenges to maintaining a safe dive and exploring environmental concepts with divers. While many "thought it would be made really accessible for try dives" many instructors say it is too deep. A "try dive" is a supervised open water dives for people who have never scuba dived before. After a quick session in the pool with an instructor where the client practices breathing, the instructor holds on to the diver in an open water site of no more than 12 meters. The Museo is 15 meters deep, and as such letting "try dives" in was a controversial decision made by Museo management. Dive operators can 156 Biosphere Reserve dive leaders, unconnected to the Museo and ostensibly held to an even higher conservation standard by law, used unsustainable dive practices like anchoring and fish feeding during my dive off the coast of La Graciosa. Despite operating as one of the few active agents of marine conservation on the island, they were the first dive professionals I saw who employed poor diving practices. In that sense, the Museo is much more rigorously following good dive protocols, albeit requiring immense infrastructure to be able to do so. upcharge for these programs because of the associated risk and one-on-one instructor contact; many dive shops had recently opened up "A Day at the Museum" try dive programs. A shop owner was disappointed, "It's 15 [meters] and within the PADI standards you can't even go to the bottom, so we don't do that. We keep them to the maximum depth they are allowed to go but it's…a lot of work, so we only take two with an instructor. People complained there was no immediate access to the site." These sorts of structural changes to the dive tourism market caused by the Museo have created subsequent changes in the dive labor economy on Lanzarote, altering lifestyles, attitudes, and relations in coastal tourism development.
Professionals attributed the EDG program with creating a community and stabilizing the dive industry on Lanzarote, emphasizing the Museo's contribution to the island's ongoing tourism and infrastructure development. The EDG successfully created a sense of shared purpose amongst the dive staff. One dive instructor noted, "A lot of the EcoDiver Instructors are my friends, all the instructors on the whole island. We share a mindset. We connect because all dive instructors come from another place [to Lanzarote]." 157 For another, the professional benefits of rebranding themselves as "Ecodiver Guides" made them particularly pleased to connect with other dive professionals on this small island. He notes, "For my future it is good to have this [EcoDiver] certification on my CV, to have connections in the dive profession." This was one of the positive externalities of the Museo Atlántico, creating a stronger set of standards not only for dive shop quality but also to promote a long-lasting professional dive community on the island and a global network of divers familiar with Taylor's work. This was a priority for one of the Museo's coordinators from CACT, who was committed to: "improv[ing] the conditions the dive guides got at the diving schools…we must stabilize and balance the turnover of dive guides. Even though it's quite difficult because they are quite used to, and quite like, the constantly moving, to work here for three months then move to Bali and stay another three months and then to Mexico. It's a way of life, we cannot change that. But we can improve the condition they've got while they're working on the island." Less turnover, however, requires more long-term housing for dive staff; this came into conflict with the growing independent tourism market Lanzarote sought to cultivate in 2017, as short-term apartment rentals for tourists reduced the housing stock for tourism professionals. Many ended up living three or four to a two-person house.
CACT counted on the Museo to drive up profits for dive professionals and create incentives for affordable housing development.
The EDG training stabilizes the dive economy on Lanzarote, mitigating risk for CACT and standardizing their approach to dive centers and labor. The Museo Atlántico, despite being a public project, manages access to the Museo to incentivize specific types of dive industry development. One CACT official described how the dive shops that are accepted into the EDG program must meet minimum requirements for air compressor inspections, shop space, diving bottle safety, the registry of equipment and visitors, a contract with a hospital, insurance, etc. He noted that without an incentive to meet health and safety standards it "is difficult to deal with diving centers. It is like a classroom, I see them like a classroom of little kids sometimes. They constantly complain about things [when they are asked to make improvements.]" Instead, the Museo's EDG program allows CACT to directly engage with dive shop owners and employees, to set standards and homogenize the Museo diving experience, and to clarify Lanzarote's brand as a dive tourism location. The content expressed in the EDG training, and subsequently expressed to tourists, is subsumed by the Museo's formal development function.

Conclusion
Phenomenological experiences and values divers derived from the Museo vary, as illustrated in the Tourism section of this chapter, but the development benefits for dive professionals are concretely altering the dive industry on Lanzarote to promote development. For tourists, the Museo is a novel but not exclusively rapturous dive experience; the costs of the Museo and the obtuse political symbology of the sculptures dilute the power of the installations environmentalist message. For dive professionals the Museo provides a boom in the island's dive industry and a resumebuilding certification, but they often fail to make the Museo legible for tourists.
Rather, the messages Taylor's sculptures are meant to evoke are mixed, muddled, and interpreted differently by the divemasters and instructors they're delegated to. While EDG dive professionals are mandated to deeply understand the message of the Museo Atlántico, many dive professionals (EDG or other) remain shallowly aware of the rest of Lanzarote's ecology.
This chapter depicts the manifold ways in which the Museo is interpreted by dive tourists and dive professionals alike. As a destination, the Museo can mean many things to many people, but it is ultimately situated in a service economy context that has little regard for how well the Museo's intended messages are interpreted. I have situated my own interpretation of the Museo within a critical tourism studies context that highlights the development function of this artificial reef installation. Artificial reefs have been measured by their ecological function, and this chapter presents a preliminary study of subject positions produced by the Museo that can inform future research measuring artificial reefs by their educational function. However, without situating artificial reefs in their development context, we ignore the reasons why they might be there in the first place. The following chapter does just that, placing the Museo in Lanzarote's tumultuous history of coastal development to better understand how artificial reefs can be deployed to ends beyond ecological enhancement.  Tourists, Traders and Fishers in Jamaica." Their study of the removal of local fishermen from Jamaican beaches to ease development and erase traces of local communities and labor from the paradisiacal beach displays similar power dynamics and legible authority. 161 Sheehan and Small, "Aqua Nullius"; Deloughrey, "Submarine Futures of the Anthropocene" Deloughrey highlights the colonial and postcolonial human history of the Transatlantic Crossing, which Derek Walcott has described as "choked" with the visible remnants of living history --distinctly not empty. Non-human species, Walcott presents, can create more-than-human history through their multispecies entablements. 162 Meyers, "An Aesthetics of Resilience." the shoreline has hardened coasts with significant ecological consequence. 163 , 1951-1960: Aerial view of the coast of Arrecife, where we see the parks `Ramírez Cerdá` and` Islas Canarias`, the `Parador` andthe` Arrecife Gran Hotel` before its reconstruction. 1971. Cabildo Insular de Lanzarote. reg:1971 Despite innovative and rigorous land use planning on Lanzarote, 3S tourism development and construction continued across the island. As early as 1973, Lanzarote's regional government had taken advantage of Spanish land laws   Klink,176. 167 Aguilera Klink,180. 168 Idoya Cabrera, FCM. Despite rigorous inquiry with online archives, I have not been able to find documentation of EU investment in the Canary Islands. activities, the apparent "lack of sustainability in this economic model", and the "most radical transformation of the territory ever seen on the Canary Islands", developers and enforcers paid little heed. 169     The Museo Atlántico similarly developed without public comment, "improving" the environment by making it legibly economically productive in a tourism development model from an "empty" seafloor. Because of the environmental uncertainties of the installation project management was particularly complex. For those involved in the implementation of the Museo, its location was key. They needed a site where they "could secure as many days for diving as possible," one CACT representative explained. Protected by the island from the northeastern winds and currents that cut between Lanzarote and La Graciosa, the bay where the Museo rests is within walking distance of the rapidly developing Playa Blanca. When asked if Playa Blanca's growing tourist community was an incentive to choose this bay, the representative rebuffed, "No, because if that were the main reason, we would have chosen Puerto del Carmen. That's where many of the dive shops were actually, the majority of the hotels were there." Puerto del Carmen, however, is often overrun with divers and vans, each parked on a sidewalk to get as close to the entry point as possible, with few facilities to support dive operations. While waiting on a public infrastructure project that would provide the hundreds of divers who come to dive each day with showers, expanded bathroom facilities, shade and fresh water, Puerto del Carmen will remain a frantic and haphazard dive center. Puerto del Carmen's waterfront is heavily developed with little room for new infrastructure, whereas Playa Blanca has, or had, swaths of beaches and waterfront access points with little development. This has allowed the Museo to install safety infrastructure, the Museo Atlántico office and studio, and multiple mooring sites for the dive shops scattered alone Playa Blanca for kilometers.

Chapter 3: Development and Democracy
But it was the character of the seafloor that proved the real source of contention for the tourism board and environmental activists. The CACT official noted that "it was very important to choose a place with no life, and no, ah, ecological sites.
So, it was difficult to find a place with these characteristics. But finally we found this bay, which is a bay within a bay, because Los Coloradas (a dive site) is already within this other inlet." A Canarian environmental consulting group, Dracaena Consulting and Environmental Projects, determined this "unrestricted site" would benefit from an artificial reef that "increased the number, richness, and biomass of life." 178 A feature in a management magazine notes how the team combed potential sites to make sure there was not a protected species of seagrass growing there. 179 Measuring biomass before and after the Museo's installation, Dracaena Consultant Javier del Campo-Jiménez demonstrated "not only that the museum had no negative impact but also that, as an artificial reef, it had a positive impact on the biological communities by promoting marine life." 180 At the same time, Taylor had begun work on the sculptures before regulatory approval was given by the local government, citing spoken approval from mainland Spain's Ministry of Environment but drawing public criticism none-the-less. Despite holding a public meeting at the inception of the project, involving island residents as models for sculptures, and allocating 2% of annual revenue from the project to ecological research, local political groups protested the manner in which the project was conceived, permitted, and approved outside of the legally acceptable timeframe for coastal development.
Familiar with illegal development and sensitive to environmental regulation, local political groups on Lanzarote disputed CACT's claim that the seafloor was "empty." Stewards of César Manrique's legacy perceive the Museo Atlántico to hypocritically undercut Manrique's anti-development agenda, predicated on seeing the environment (terrestrial or marine) as "full" despite seeming "barren." FCM Advocates describe the installation of the Museo Atlántico as "illegal" because there was no "real" period for public comment nor a publicly available environmental impact statement from the hired consulting group, let alone a discussion as to whether or not the Museo project, as a whole, was appropriate. 181 Much like El Berrugo, activists contend that there was an undocumented communitythis time ecologicalthat was erased in the process of installing the Museo Atlántico. They describe the areas outside Marine Rubicon as "sebadal", an ecological term found exclusively in Canarian Spanish referring to a seabed covered with sebas marine macroalgae. Fields of sebedales are rooted in the seabed anywhere from 10 to 30 meters of depth and in calm waters around the Canary Islands. 182 Seba, or Cymodocea nodosa, stabilizes seafloor substrate with its root system, supports nitrogen-fixing and oxygen-producing algae, and provides habitat for juvenile fish. 183 In response, artist Jason deCaires Taylor describes the impact assessment process as "very comprehensive" as they "spent a year with a team of marine biologists, studying the site to make sure the use of the museum wouldn't affect the natural habitat around it in a negative way. "184 A CACT representative noted that a major step in the permitting process was to make sure there was no sebas in the site selected for the Museo. So adamant was he that there was no marine life at the site, that he described the future of the Museo as a sebas restoration site "to see if this weed could grow again, because apparently in the past it was an area where the plant was presented, but with the touristic development and some biologic reasons it stopped." An FCM advocate disagrees, noting "It's a lie: they're not protecting the area, they've destroyed an area without any public dialogue." As an isolated eco-art installation, the Museo Atlántico might not consider itself a threat to the marine environment. The designers of the project took explicit stepsfrom an EIS to utilizing pH neutral concreteto make sure this intervention only had "positive" environmental outcomes for local marine ecology. In the context of the Berrugo, however, the Museo Atlántico is another instance of illegal (or at least publicly contested) development on an island that prides itself on open, protected, environmental space.

Critiquing the Museo Atlántico as Development
Development is a foundational belief underpinning modernity, the means by which all modern advances in science and technology, democracy and social organization, and rationalized ethics emerge as a unified humanitarian project meant to uplift global populations through shared effort. Not necessarily emphasizing economic growth as progress, modernist development is a technocratic solution to a network of social and environmental challenges that addresses the conditions under which economic growth might occur. 185 But poststructuralists, including Berman, 186 find that Enlightenmentaffiliated development presumes to define all metrics for what progress is, limiting alternative ways of being and ideal futures. Even alternative or post-development (which center participatory process and local communities) are in many ways reactionary and prescriptive. 187 Development projects are "capital-intensive, hightechnology, large-scale development projects that convert farmlands, fishing grounds, 185 Peet and Hartwick, Theories of Development, Third Edition, 2. 186 Berman, All That Is Solid Melts into Air: The Experience of Modernity. 187 Oliver-Smith, Defying Displacement, 1, 5-10; Pieterse, "My Paradigm or Yours?" interestingly proposes "reflexive" development, in which a critique of science is viewed as part of development politics.
forests, and homes into dam-created reservoirs, irrigation schemes, mining operations, plantations, colonization projects, highways, industrial complexes, tourist resorts, and other large-scale forms of use favoring national or global interests over those of people at the local level." 188 In the way that the Museo's installation process disempowered locals, it bears no resemblance to Manrique's tourism infrastructure that, more than preserving traditional livelihoods, created political and social infrastructure that supported community efforts to preserve local space. Full of contradiction, the Museo is instead an illegal development that disempowered contemporary community activists and their efforts to self-determine their use of natural resources. to support the what Development historian call the "uprooting of people and the destruction of homes and communities in the name of progress." 189 It's a "dark project, a dirty project," one community advocate scoffed. One representative emphasized that the repeated development of tourism infrastructure without due public process "undermined democracy in Spain." He described a pattern, where development would continue on Lanzarote while the court process proceeded in Madrid, reinforcing the local sentiment that the Canaries have so civic standing with the mainland, and that even now the Canaries are mere colonies that provide tax revenue through their year-round tourism economies. As one advocate decried during the Berrugo protests, "This has become a moment when the immensity of the sea is reduced to a business and our landscape is divided into urbanizable plots." 190 The Museo has effectively privatized 50 square meters of open ocean off Lanzarote's coast, attempting to restrict entry for profit by installing regulatable and surveillable infrastructure in public space in addition to charging 12 Euro for entry.  The support infrastructure for the Museo Atlántico alters use of Lanzarote's marine environment as much as the Museo itself, making common property private.
As much as self-determination and sovereignty over one's natural resources is an internationally acknowledged right, these rights are also claimed by states to develop resources in the "national interest" in the shallow waters of El Berrugo. 191 A set of buoys marks the perimeter of the Museo, as well as the start and endpoints for the curated path through the museum. The Museo is safeguarded by a 25-foot patrol boat, which houses two security guards, emergency response equipment, a small stove and an espresso maker. Whether or not dive professionals are on good terms with the security staff can impact their relationship to the Museo, as running even five minutes late for one's visitation slot can result in a citation by the Museo office, and chipper conversation may get you a free stovetop espresso and a grin. The guards are stationed at the Eastern corner of the Museo from 9 am to 4 pm, returning the boat to the Marina after that time. While one could swim from the shore to the Museo, one would need to cross a channel used by motor boats before reaching the Museo and completing the 15-meter dive. This has aggravated some of the guests, as one Google Review reads: "The Museo Atlántico is a nice idea, but I find the implementation to be mediocre at best. The main reason is not even the sculptures, but the way in which the authorities use their ships to lock up the arsenal and you need a permit for every snippet of film." (Tom, Google Review, April 2018) At the core of this complaintand many others noted during interviews with residents who don't have access to dive equipmentis the expectation of access to public space, as a diver and as a photographer. CACT has extended its privatization of the coastline from the Marina Rubicon, where it rents space (like Taylor's sculpture studio and the official Museo Atlántico office) and organizes tourism activities, to the ocean itself. It uses static structural interventions and markers, buoys, ropes and lines, to create a static, regulatable space in an ecosystem that is by definition fluid.
The Museo Atlántico ultimately exists in a fluid space that is volumetrically full, despite being regulated as a two-dimensional surface seascape the state defined as

Vibrant Matter
The non-human aspects of the Museo Atlántico are very much alive, defying the boundaries and barriers established by CACT and repurposing the museum for their own use. As substrate, the statues interrupt the barren sea floor and create areas where algae, coral, seaweed, and can attach themselves. Taylor is utterly content to see the statues taken over by whatever might cultivate itself on the pH-neutral concrete.
Indeed, he has intentionally added certain textures, he claims, to parts of the statues to  Museo sculptures designed for fish habitat have evolved beyond their intended or designed "positive" ecological function to interrupt the operation of the Museo.
Over two months of weekly dives at the Museo Atlántico, I watched as various predatory species used not only the sculptures but the divers attending the Museo to herd prey into convenient formations for a kill. Given that dive tourists take a specific path to explore the Museo, there are repetitive and predictable shapes that habituate the animal stewards of the site to certain interactions. Most notably, the small school of barracuda (Sphyrena viridensis) that took up residence in the shallows of the museum, weaving amongst the fake kelp installed by Taylor to cater to snorkelers, use the bubbles emitted by divers as they exhale to hunt small fish. Barracuda wait for the divers to 'round a corner and create a "dead end" for sardine and small fish that school above the Rubicon sculpture. The Rubicon, an army of inattentive technology-addicts marching towards a "point of no return" symbolized by a large wall, channels the school into a corner. The bubbles of the divers, instructed by the dive staff to remain to the left of the Rubicon, dissuade the schooled fish from escaping to the left at any depth as their bubbles rise to the surface. The barracuda take this opportunity to "dive bomb" the schooled fish, now densely packed together between the divers and statues and easy prey. This behavior is akin to a tactic, leveraging material changes to ocean spacethe surprising bubbles from divers that interrupt the usually stable water column -to increase the likely success of a hunt. In this way the Museo makes up a symbiotic assemblage, a knot of "diverse intra-active relatings in dynamic complex systems" rather than a biology made up of preexisting bounded units." 194 But while scholars like Haraway avoid designating a "host" for these symbiotic interactions, it seems dishonest to de-center the Museo's statues as the site and instigator for these interactions. These interactions exist because of the Museo Atlántico 's attraction: an attraction for tourists as much as for aggregating species seeking habitat in a vast marine environment. When the Museo attraction is successful, the diversity of uses for the sculptures across species can lead to new categories of conflict. One example of multispecies interaction and conflict hosted at the Museo resides in The Gyre, where territorial triggerfish assail divers completing the curated dive path. The Gyre is one of Taylor's most ambitious sculptures, made up of over 200 individual pieces, naked bodies with limbs flung wide, laced together to form a ring. For Taylor the piece speaks to the bodies at stake in geopolitical affairs and the interconnectedness of human affairs. It also creates habitat for small benthic fish in the crevices formed by bodies fitting imperfectly together. Rather unintentionally, however, The Gyre mimics the shape of a very, very large triggerfish nest, a ring of sand and rock dug into the sand with a depression in the center. Notoriously territorial, triggerfish (Balistes spp.) have been known to attack divers' hair, fins, and mask if divers swim near the nest. At the Museo Atlántico, the triggerfish have claimed The Gyre as their own, attacking divers with enough regularity that guides specifically warn divers away from that specific sculpture in their briefing. Divers have reportedly panicked when surprised by the fish, fleeing to the surface or overusing air. One longtime resident who has dived the island for decades mentioned with a glimmer of glee that several divemasters had mentioned "culling" triggerfish from the Museo during an illicit night dive due to the degree of duress the fish added to the dive experience. Triggerfish may be territorial, but so too are the dive professionals claiming "stewardship" status for the oceans. Entangled as the Museo site is, it remains a managed tourist attraction defined by (in many ways terrestrial) ideas of space, ownership, and staunch entitlement.
The designers and developers of the Museo Atlántico make no claim to predict what type of life will aggregate around the installation or to what end those species will make use of these sculptures. As eco-art, much of the actual ecological development of the sculptures is left to the currents and tides that shape the sea and patterns of organism movement. While Taylor might texture the cement to encourage settlement and growth of substrate-dependent sea life, he disclaims any control over what those species might actually be. However, as an organized "museum" of eco-art, Taylor and CACT set a particular dive route that creates particular expectations of what a diver will see. While many dive guides describe what a diver might see, they very rarely make guarantees as to what a diver will see in most dive contexts. In a vast ocean filled with highly mobile speciescertainly more mobile than divers lumbering through the shallowsdive professionals are usually trained to expect only the unexpected. Vibrant matter at the Museo Atlántico continually interrupts and subverts the messages Taylor hoped to convey through his serene and eerie installations. The relations forming between the statues and marine life may be perfectly benign, but the relationship between dive tourists or professionals and marine life are increasingly complicated, if not antagonistic.

Clandestine Development
The Museo may be a solution to boosting the dive tourism economy on Lanzarote, but does little for the sociopolitical resilience of this democratic territory of Spain. Built on and sunk near an illegal marina condemned in public discourse but supported by government agents, the Museo Atlántico is seen as illegitimate and exploitative. Local anti-development activists have struggled to regulate coastal development and maintain public participation in land management using Lanzarote's Biosphere Reserve status, protest, or lawsuits. Artificial reefs, considered conservation or restoration improvements before they are considered infrastructure or development, can be installed with even less regard for community consent in this Biosphere Reserve context where the island's environmentalist brandderived from genuine environmental activism on Lanzarote 30 years agoinvites conservation-themed tourism infrastructure that give visitors access to the seafloor. The infrastructure demanded to support these very human expeditions to very unhuman spaces has altered shorelines to further exploit marine resources in the name of increased tourism revenue to the state. Recognizing and regulating artificial reefs as development and allowing a public comment period may mitigate some of these issues.
Engaged with human objects that reach far beyond where human objects have commonly reached before, artificial reefs, the triggerfish, barracuda, algae, and sardines, reform into a complex new Anthropocene ecology "restored" or "enhanced" by intentional but uncontrolled human intervention. More than a Manrique-esque preservation and conservation effort, the Museo expands human access to a "barren" seafloor that might never have encountered the organisms that have colonized this Anthropocene intervention. There is little course for a more resilient dive tourism if tourism scholars and developers continue to neglect the social and multispecies entanglements of dive tourism sites, where the actual interspecies interactions at the Museo are often complicated, dangerous, and antagonistic.
Anthropocene tourism demands Anthropocene governance. Regulation for artificial reefs, where it exists, is usually part of the oil rig decommission process or individually permitted under Departments of Environmental Management. The exploitation of El Berrugo's coasts emphasizes the need for clearer standards for the type of infrastructure allowed on the seafloor. What states and governing bodies consider valuable is tenuously connected to what communities consider sacred, and projects like the Museo Atlántico demonstrate the ability for globalization and development to reach deep below the ocean's surface.

Conclusion
September 21th 2018, two days before the general Presidential elections in the Maldives, a team of men sent by the lame duck president Abdulla Tameen brought axes and ropes into the Coralarium, Taylor's most recent project, and tore down the sculptures in the installation. The president declared the sculptures haram, forbidden works that through their "un-Islamic depiction of human figures" was a "threat to Islamic unity and the peace and interests of the Islamic state," citing "significant public sentiment" against the sculptures. 195 The "world's first intertidal museum", the Coralarium, was a metal cube enclosing a series of mangrove men, with curious children and parents looking out at the horizon from atop the cube and part of the exclusive Fairmont Firru Fen resort. 196 An on-site marine biologist was hired to guide guests through a coral restoration experience, but now that amenity will have to wait.
The sculptures are gone, and Taylor has moved on to a state-sponsored project in Australia. Once again, the social and political context of an artificial reef tourism project has disrupted the intended use and value of the project. More importantly, the project has disrupted the ecology and environment being ostensibly "restored." Once again, I am left questioning the priorities and process by which tourism developers value nature.
The Museo Atlántico 's implementation reveals the stew of actors, policies, and powers that deploy artificial reefs as a tourism product, arguing that developers use conservation rhetoric to justify artificial reef development with little accountability to 195 News, "Unique Underwater Sculpture in the Maldives Destroyed after Deemed Un-Islamic." 196 Trilivas, "Take A Swim In This Underwater Gallery." the local public or environment. The Museo Atlántico in Lanzarote, Canarias is a large-scale sculpture installation that developers claim acts an artificial reef for ecological and economic benefit while education tourists about the marine environment. Lanzarote is an exacting example of an "art island," a tourism phenomenon that leverages art, architecture, and a local conservation ethos to redesign the local environment in a way that makes the landscape's value legible to visiting tourists. First in local architect César Manrique then, some argue, in Museo artist Jason deCaires Taylor At the heart of the conflict over the Museo Atlántico is the value and colonization of purportedly "empty" coastal and marine space. The El Berrugo fishing community? Legally, those coastal lands are empty and unoccupied. The seagrass beds? They didn't exist according to the transects taken by consulting scientists, or at least they were replaceable. Despite the ocean being volumetrically full of seawater, fish, plastic, and plankton constantly moving and migrating through ocean space, the Museo is perceived to "make something useful" of Lanzarote's "empty" submerged coast. Productivity in the fifty square meters of the Museo is now measurable as the 197 Lawrence, "From Bullfights to Bikinis." 198 Ángel Santana Turégano, "Dependency and Development Patterns in Tourism." See also Santana 1997. number of visitors to the site, as revenue, as Instagram posts of specific statues, as a site with discernable "landmarks" legible to human visitors to the ocean blue. The installation of the Museo effectively privatizes a common pool resource to reduce traffic or over-exploitation while generating predicable profits, which developers use to justify the public tax dollars spent on the project without guaranteeing public access.
Perhaps Taylor Affairs has encouraged me to kill my darlings. Inspired by the methods and experience modelled in Marine Environmental History and Social Studies of Science, I had the tools to interrogate the policies and infrastructure whose aesthetics most align with my own, whose imagined utopias seem possible and close. Understanding Coastal Ecosystems Governance and working at the intersection of planning, governance, community engagement exposed me to histories of questionably well-intended infrastructure gone awry. Issues in the coastal margin are necessarily interdisciplinary, and Lanzarote's story is no different. Ineffective management policies, the power of capital, and coastal infrastructure projects at odds with community interests are themes that permeate the content of Marine Affairs coursework.
This thesis explored the preliminary impacts of and responses to the Museo Atlántico artificial reef development using qualitative methods like interviews, participant observation, photojournalism, and immersive ethnographic practice. The project was limited by time, access, and funding. While able to observe the early phases of installation and tourist engagement, it is to be seen whether the Museo will actually achieve its intended effects of boosting dive tourism, providing a new marine habitat that cultivates marine biodiversity, encouraging less turnover in the dive professional community, and producing a return-on-investment for the taxpayer: One Lanzarote journal recently noted that CACT spent 17,100 Euros on a marketing consultant to increase Museo visitation from tourists and Lanzarote residents alike, so it is clear that the project should continue to be observed and evaluated. 199 This project could have benefitted from a more involved anonymous survey process like that used in the Block Island Wind Farm project, where we could have followed up with Museo divers after several months. One other major limitation is that my Spanish is basic at best (though I did have access to a translator on the island if necessary), so the communities I could talk to in their native language were limited to French and English. This restricted communication in certain circumstances, but for the most part tourism professionals were fluent in English. I also recognize that this is a very specific type of artificial reef development and am eager to see research on projects that are more utilitarian and less "aesthetic." I expect that different tourist communities would be inclined to participate in such artificial reef projects.
Future projects could measure and track behavioral changes, and develop visualization techniques to help Biosphere Reserve managers quantify marine resources. Specifically, research out of University of Rhode Island has calibrated remote sensing tools to detect eelgrass in shallow and semi-shallow waters. 200 An excellent Marine Affairs project would be to use historical satellite data and provide Lanzarote's community with evidence of the previously existing sebadal bed where the Museo Atlántico is now. Funding was limited, and a future study would benefit from exclusively observing dive behavior at the Museo Atlánticowhether and how divers interact with the sculptures, marine species behavior at the site, and what happens at the Museo "after hours" once the patrol staff leave at 4 pm. With an additional research assistant and access to more tanks, it is entirely possible to do hourly rotations with adequate surface intervals at the Museo to quantify diver behavior. Alternately, some tourism studies scholars have given consenting divers GoPro's for the duration of their dive and used video software to typify and quantify behaviors. How dive tourists understand tourism infrastructure could be discerned alternately through a mixed methods study with Q Sorting alongside structured interviews. Much of my data could also be quantified, and I encourage future Master's students interested in artificial reefs and underwater sculpture to process my data in SPSS or nVivo and explore other possible narratives of dive site preference on Lanzarote.
This story begins and ends with bodies of water. On a small desert island off the coast of Morocco, surrounded by the Macaronesian seas, human bodies adapted to and with their utterly arid environment to survive. Since settling the island in the mid-1300s, the people of Lanzarote have cultivated lifestyles and agricultural practices that maximized the amount of freshwater available on the island for human survival. These bodies of water adapted to the landscapes and marinescapes of the archipelago, cultivating new naturecultural relationships and symbiotic dependencies over hundreds of years of coexistence. Yet, over these centuries, human technologies increased the availability or extractability of these freshwater resources have redefined the terms of symbiosis, expanding the carrying capacity of the island through technologies like reverse osmosis and desalination. These bodies of water are technologically adapted and extended beyond the freshwater resources provided by these cultivated ecologies. These bodies of water sank a silent army of humanoid sculptures to sit on the ocean floor. These bodies of water are held up by infrastructure and tourism income. These bodies of water are, in this way, vulnerable.