In Caspar David Friedrich’s Wanderer above the Sea of Fog, a man stands alone on a rocky precipice, back turned, gazing into a white landscape.
While the wanderer gives an air of triumph, the fog obscures the majority of the view, and he stands at the edge of the cliffside. He cannot see what is below, and neither can we. Given the sea of uncertainty underneath, is it possible his triumph is a facade? Regardless, for him to move forward, he must descend into the unknown.
While I’d love to credit Seamus for the challenge of writing about this painting this week, I was first introduced to it in Minecraft. Kristoffer Zetterstrand has an adaptation titled Wanderer, in which the wanderer exhibits the same signature pose and majestic classical landscape background, but stands atop a stark foreground of blocky pixel art.
At first, comparing the two, I wasn’t sure what to make of the modified fog. Initially, the juxtaposition between the traditional oil on canvas and the blocky pixelation grabbed my attention, and I tried to make sense of icy blues that represented what seemed to be both a lake and the sky. But then, I returned back to the wanderer, and realized that both paintings, in their differences, still portray the same message: a wanderer, back turned, gazing into a landscape, as the mysterious fog below leaves the rest of the landscape obscured. Amongst the adaptation, very little information is provided on the meaning or appearance of this land, but the wanderer stands as the focus of attention: his mere presence is more meaningful than the land to be traversed. Or at least, that’s how I felt looking at these paintings after playing Journey.
Journey gives minimal context for the story upon launch. With nothing but a distant mountain (and some railroading if you stray too far), I did the only thing I really could do: look to the mountain—the unknown—and walk.
The first few sections, admittedly, were rather painful. In the walking simulator to end all walking simulators, I started alone, trekking across the sand slowly, and feeling disincentivized to explore and collect the flowing sigils, as I knew it would mean making the slow trek back to end up on track again. Acting as an unknown object in the distance, I wasn’t motivated to deviate, nor was I particularly excited for what awaited me, so I wandered through the first few cutscenes living a bland existence.
A few levels in, I exited a transition area to find another pair of footsteps in the sand. Without names or prior exchange, we emitted chimes, and suddenly I was no longer forced to walk through the sand alone—instead gaining the ability to fly, albeit momentarily. I got ahead of my partner once and waited for them, and shortly after they waited at the next level ending so we could walk in together. Suddenly, the trip through the desert wasn’t excruciatingly painful anymore.
I had 2 companions throughout my playthrough, both of whom I spent about 30 minutes with. As we soared, swam, and flew together, it was not only more efficient, but more fulfilling.
In the brief in-between where my first companion left me alone for a level, I felt a sense of loss. I’d like to rationalize it as being upset that my movement was made less efficient, but even I couldn’t succeed in that bluff. As my second companion left me at a lantern hearth in the snowy cliffs, I ended up forced to make the final trek alone and longed to have a friend by my side.
The simple presence of another creature, even identity obscured, was enough for me to consider launching the game again immediately, to find another partner and complete the trek.
When one looks at Zetterstrand’s Wanderer, there is nothing more to see than a figure in full detail that directly contrasts a low-resolution, pixelated abstraction of surroundings. In the grand scheme of things, the fog never mattered, but the person within it did. This feels even clearer upon considering the emphasis of the Minecraft adaptation, abstracting away the background entirely.
Lack of permanence should not be mistaken for a lack of meaning, as the fleeting moments of our lives are often the most memorable. Friedrich’s wanderer stands alone, but I reckon he might be more satisfied with a companion. If only for a fleeting moment, we could all benefit from someone letting us know—even without the use of words—that they are willing to accompany us into the fog.
