Read this Wildlife Art Journal article

By Todd Wilkinson

For most of us, enlightenment is a perpetual odyssey of ascent, toward the glow.

We rise out of shadowy slumber, battling amnesia attached to our dreams, only to arrive groggy and—if we're lucky—awakened by morning sun. 
 
We ask ourselves (if we still can remember them): Were the visions delivered to us real? 
 
In Wayne Levin's underwater oeuvre, heightened awareness is achieved in reverse: We are plunged forth into a tenebrous tableau, escaping the comfortable world we know, sinking ever deeper through the aquasphere as shifting elemental forces rearrange perception. 
 
Descending into the oceanic abyss, we are not put to sleep but jarred into a new state of consciousness, as if in the midst of unending REM.

Perhaps it is the primordial memory of amphibious ancestors calling us home to swim with sharks, whales, dolphins and seals; or maybe we are heeding beacon signals sent from long-lost Atlantis on the bottom.
 
Whatever archetypal allusion one desires to employ, Levin's entrancing photographs come across, first, as spare and stark yet they resonate in ways uncommon and lasting, even within the context of grand marine photography. 
 
A glimpse through Levin's viewfinder leaves us breathless.  Our response has little to do with lack of oxygen. It is, instead, a tingling visceral exclamation of how beautiful—and textural—Levin's milieu is in the absence of color. 
 
That's right, as Poseidon with a Nikonos V strapped to his arm, Levin, remarkably, gives...