water needs an atmosphere?

The idea that water needs an atmosphere is a product of human perception, a story we’ve written over and over, etched into the deepest layers of scientific understanding. On Earth, it’s true: the air around us cradles the oceans, locks rivers into their banks, and keeps the rain from dissolving into vapor before it even touches the soil. Water, as we know I it, dances in tune with the rhythm of Earth’s atmosphere, a waltz of pressure and temperature, a delicate ballet of molecules slipping between liquid, vapor, and ice. But to assume this waltz must always follow the same tune is to forget that the universe is vast, and the story of water is far from written in full.

Consider the barren landscapes of Mars, where ancient riverbeds snake across the surface like memories of a distant past. There, the atmosphere has thinned to the point of near-nothingness, and liquid water—if it exists at all—must hide beneath the surface, shielded from the hungry vacuum above. The thin whisper of Martian air cannot hold water in its liquid state, cannot embrace it with the warmth and pressure it needs to flow freely. And yet, the evidence remains, lingering like a ghost, that water once roamed these lands, carving canyons and shaping mountains in a time long forgotten. The absence of a thick atmosphere on Mars forces us to question what we thought we knew: must water always cling to the presence of air? Or could it be that under the right conditions, liquid water defies our expectations, slipping through the cracks in our understanding?

This question has grown more insistent as our gaze turns outward, beyond the rocky planets of our solar system, to the icy moons of the gas giants. There, in places like Europa and Enceladus, we find the possibility of oceans—vast, dark, and hidden beneath miles of ice. There is no atmosphere in these frozen worlds, at least not one that would make sense to us. The surface is desolate, the cold beyond comprehension, yet below, far from the reach of sunlight, tidal forces stretch and pull, generating heat, keeping water liquid beneath the ice. These are worlds where water exists without an atmosphere, where liquid persists despite the frigid silence above. It is as if the universe itself is reminding us that the conditions for life, for the flow of water, are more diverse than we have dared to imagine.

We are bound to the Earth, and so our thinking is bound to it as well. We see water in the context of the only home we’ve ever known, and so we say, “Water needs an atmosphere.” But what if that’s not true? What if water, like life itself, is far more adaptable than we give it credit for? What if it finds a way to exist in places we cannot yet understand, places where the rules are different, where pressure comes not from air but from the crushing weight of ice, where heat does not come from the sun but from the friction of gravity’s embrace?

Moons like Europa (Jupiter) and Enceladus (Saturn) are believed to have subsurface oceans beneath their icy crusts. These oceans exist despite the lack of a thick atmosphere, raising the possibility that water, and potentially life, could exist without the kind of atmosphere Earth relies on.

• Tidal Heating: These moons are kept warm through tidal heating—caused by gravitational interactions with their host planets—rather than atmospheric pressure. This suggests that liquid water can exist in unexpected conditions, supported by forces other than a traditional atmosphere.

Tidal heating is one of the most intriguing natural phenomena we’ve come to understand in recent decades, especially as we shift our focus away from Earth-centric views of life and habitability. The prevailing narrative—rooted in our experience of the Earth’s life systems—told us for centuries that life requires warmth from a nearby star and an atmosphere to hold it in. But as we explore farther into the cosmos, that narrative is unraveling, and tidal heating is one of the forces pulling the thread.

Gravitational interactions between moons and their host planets are more than a display of cosmic mechanics—they generate real, physical consequences, like the production of internal heat in celestial bodies. Imagine a small moon like Europa, orbiting the massive planet Jupiter, locked in a gravitational dance. As Europa’s orbit stretches into an ellipse, Jupiter’s intense gravitational pull squeezes and flexes Europa’s icy body. This flexing generates friction, and with friction comes heat. Not the fiery, destructive heat we associate with volcanoes or magma, but a quiet, steady warmth—enough to melt the thick ice that covers Europa and keep a hidden ocean of liquid water beneath its surface.

And here’s where the story gets really interesting. That ocean, stretching kilometers deep below an icy crust, doesn’t need the warmth of the Sun or the pressure of an atmosphere to stay liquid. It’s kept warm by forces inside the moon itself, suggesting that liquid water can exist in the most unexpected places—far from the Sun, in moons without atmospheres, under thick layers of ice. Europa, with its cold, inhospitable surface, suddenly becomes a prime candidate for harboring life, all because of the invisible forces of tidal heating.

It isn’t just Europa. Enceladus, a small moon of Saturn, has become another celestial beacon in the search for life. Beneath its ice-covered surface, we’ve detected water plumes erupting into space, likely from subsurface oceans heated by similar tidal forces. The simple fact that liquid water exists on these moons—even though their surface temperatures are hundreds of degrees below freezing—challenges our understanding of where and how life can exist.

Water, in its liquid form, has always been considered the cradle of life. On Earth, where water interacts with atmospheric pressure and sunlight, it’s a vehicle for complex chemistry—the solvent for life’s processes. But in the icy depths of Europa and Enceladus, there’s no Sun, no thick atmosphere. Instead, gravitational energy provides the warmth and possibly the chemistry that could support life. Tidal heating makes the case that life may not need Earth-like conditions to thrive. The basic ingredients for life—liquid water, energy, and essential chemicals—could exist in oceans locked away beneath layers of ice, powered by the silent, internal forces of a moon’s gravitational relationship with its planet.

The implications are vast. If life can evolve in subsurface oceans beneath ice sheets, warmed by tidal forces rather than sunlight, then the habitable zone of the universe—the places we consider capable of supporting life—expands dramatically. Life could exist in the dark, frozen regions of the outer solar system or in exoplanetary systems far from their host stars. It opens up a whole new narrative about where we might find life, not bound by the need for sunlight or a thick atmosphere.

From a philosophical perspective, tidal heating forces us to reconsider the assumptions we’ve built about habitability. The story of life’s potential stretches beyond the Goldilocks zone—the narrow band where planets are neither too hot nor too cold. It pushes us to consider environments that seem hostile on the surface but may hide warm, life-sustaining worlds beneath. Moons like Europa and Enceladus are no longer frozen, dead bodies drifting in space. They are active, dynamic systems—hidden oceans, warmed by the very forces that govern their orbits, potentially teeming with life.

The evidence for tidal heating is not speculative—it’s grounded in hard science. We see the effects in the observed geological activity on these moons, like the water plumes on Enceladus and the complex surface features of Europa. We understand the mechanics of how tidal forces generate internal heat, and it’s a phenomenon we can model and predict with precision. What remains to be discovered is what lies beneath—what life forms, if any, have evolved in these isolated, cold oceans?

In a way, tidal heating is the ultimate symbol of how the universe works in quiet, unassuming ways, generating life and warmth in places we never thought possible.

It is a reminder that the universe’s mysteries don’t always announce themselves with dramatic flair. Sometimes, they whisper from the depths of icy moons, where water and heat meet in the dark, and the possibility of life quietly endures.

Liquid water is an excellent solvent due to its polarity, meaning it can dissolve a wide variety of substances. This quality enables the complex chemistry necessary for life as we know it, such as the formation of proteins, nucleic acids, and other organic molecules. The assumption is that any biochemical system would need a similar solvent to sustain the chemical processes that support life.

Water, one of the most versatile molecules in the universe, can exist in various forms depending on temperature and pressure. When water is exposed to extreme pressures—far beyond what we experience on Earth’s surface—it forms exotic crystalline structures. Two such forms are Ice VII and Ice X, which are quite different from the ice we encounter in everyday life.

Ice VII: Formation: Ice VII forms when water is subjected to very high pressures, starting around 3 gigapascals (GPa), which is about 30,000 times the atmospheric pressure at sea level. This type of ice is typically found in the deep interiors of large icy moons, exoplanets, or within Earth’s mantle in high-pressure conditions. Structure: Unlike the regular hexagonal structure of common ice (Ice I), Ice VII has a cubic crystalline structure. The water molecules are arranged more densely in a three-dimensional network, making it much more compact than normal ice.

• Where It Exists: Ice VII is believed to exist deep beneath the surfaces of moons like Europa or Enceladus, as well as in the interiors of large exoplanets. Because it forms under extreme pressure, it’s typically found in planetary cores where gravitational forces compress water to such high densities.

Ice X: Formation: Ice X forms under even more extreme pressures, starting at around 70 GPa (700,000 times the pressure at Earth’s surface). This is pressure that you’d only find deep inside large planetary bodies, like the cores of gas giants or super-Earth exoplanets.

• Structure: Ice X is highly unique because at these pressures, the hydrogen atoms in water (H₂O) start to behave very differently. Instead of forming hydrogen bonds between oxygen atoms as in normal ice, the hydrogen atoms in Ice X are squeezed so tightly that they become symmetrically positioned between oxygen atoms. This creates an almost metallic-like crystal lattice, and the water molecules are no longer distinguishable in their usual form. Ice X is much denser and more rigid than Ice VII.

• Where It Exists: Ice X is thought to exist in the deep cores of large icy exoplanets or gas giants, where pressures are so intense that water takes on this highly compressed form.

Chemical Interactions and the Possibility of Life

Even though Ice VII and Ice X form under extreme conditions, there is speculation that these phases of water could still allow for chemical interactions that might support life, albeit life forms far different from those we understand.

Ice VII:bIn the deep interiors of icy moons or exoplanets, Ice VII could create a layered structure. This means that while Ice VII exists at great depths, there might be liquid water above it, sustained by tidal heating or radioactive decay. If liquid water exists near an Ice VII layer, it’s possible that chemical interactions between the liquid and solid phases could occur, allowing for a unique kind of chemistry to take place, possibly supporting microbial life.

• Additionally, the interface between Ice VII and liquid water could provide a stable environment for extremophiles, organisms that can live in extreme conditions. Just as life exists near hydrothermal vents on Earth, where heat and chemicals from deep within the Earth meet cold seawater, similar life forms could thrive in the contact zones between exotic ice and liquid water.

Ice X: Ice X exists under much more extreme conditions, so the possibility of life in this phase is less clear. However, some researchers speculate that exotic chemistry could still occur in such environments. The symmetrical structure of Ice X might facilitate high-pressure chemical reactions that we don’t yet fully understand. Since hydrogen atoms in Ice X are positioned differently than in other forms of water, there may be unknown interactions that could potentially support forms of life adapted to these environments.

• It’s important to note that even if Ice X itself does not support life, the regions above Ice X where pressures are slightly lower (creating Ice VII or liquid water) could be environments where life might thrive. The presence of Ice X would influence the behavior of the layers above it, possibly stabilizing the environment in a way that makes life more feasible.

Expanding Our Understanding of Habitability: Traditional ideas about habitability focus on conditions similar to Earth’s: liquid water, moderate temperatures, and a stable atmosphere. However, the discovery of Ice VII and Ice X challenges this view, showing that water in extreme conditions can exist in places previously thought uninhabitable. It opens the door to the possibility of life existing in places we would have never considered, such as the deep interiors of exoplanets or icy moons.

As we discover more exoplanets, particularly super-Earths (large rocky planets) and icy giants, we realize that many of these planets have high-pressure conditions where exotic forms of ice like Ice VII and Ice X are likely to exist. Understanding these forms of ice helps scientists model the internal structures of these planets, which could be crucial for determining whether they have subsurface oceans or habitable zones.

Theoretical Biology: If life can exist in environments with Ice VII or Ice X, it would have to operate in ways completely unlike life on Earth. Studying these exotic ices might help us understand what alternative biochemistries could look like and how life might function under extreme conditions. This could broaden our search for life to include a much wider range of planetary environments.

While we still don’t fully understand the chemistry of Ice VII and Ice X, their existence offers a glimpse into the diversity of planetary environments. These exotic ices show us that water, a seemingly simple molecule, can behave in incredibly complex ways under extreme pressure. This behavior, combined with the potential for life to adapt to extreme environments, means that the presence of Ice VII or Ice X on distant worlds could be a significant factor in the search for life beyond Earth.

On Earth, extremophiles—organisms that live in environments previously thought uninhabitable—push the boundaries of what we believe life needs. These organisms thrive in hydrothermal vents deep in the ocean, in acidic lakes, and even in the harsh environments of deep caves or dry deserts. The discovery of extremophiles shows that life is incredibly adaptable, and may not require the specific conditions we previously thought were essential, like a thick atmosphere or a stable surface temperature.

Exoplanets and Habitability: Our understanding of habitable zones, or “Goldilocks zones,” has been redefined as we discover more exoplanets. These zones are not as narrow as once thought, and some planets or moons previously dismissed as uninhabitable may actually harbor life. For example, planets that are tidally locked (one side always facing the star) or rogue planets without stars are being reconsidered. The discovery of water on Mars, both in its past and potentially in small amounts today, is another example of how these assumptions are changing.

We cannot deny the importance of Earth in shaping our understanding. After all, it is here, on this blue planet, that water has given life to every creature that has ever drawn breath. The atmosphere is the cradle, the protector, the mediator between the chaos of space and the fragile balance of life. But just because it is true here does not mean it is true everywhere. The more we learn about the universe, the more we must acknowledge that Earth is not the only model for life, nor for water.

There is an irony here, a faracful that hangs in the air like the faint scent of rain before a storm. We search for water in the cosmos because we believe it is the key to finding life, yet we do so with the assumption that water must behave as it does here, on Earth. But the more we search, the more we find that water may not need an atmosphere at all. It may flow beneath the ice of moons, it may vaporize in the thin air of Mars, it may exist in forms and places we have not yet imagined. And so, we are left with the uncomfortable realization that our search for life, our quest to understand the universe, may be constrained by the very assumptions we cling to.

Water, it seems, does not need us to understand it. It will exist where it will, in forms we cannot predict, under conditions that defy our expectations. The universe is a trickster in that way, always just beyond our reach, always revealing just enough to keep us searching, questioning, doubting. And as we push further into the cosmos, we must learn to let go of the certainty that has guided us for so long. Water may need an atmosphere on Earth, but out there, in the vastness of space, it plays by a different set of rules. And if we are to find it—if we are to understand it—we must be willing to let go of the stories we’ve told ourselves, and embrace the possibility that the truth is far more complex, and far more beautiful, than we ever imagined.

The flow of water is the flow of knowledge, always moving, always reshaping the land it touches. It carves through our certainties, eroding the bedrock of our understanding, until all that remains is the question: where else might water flow, and what does it mean for life, for us, for the stories we tell about our place in the universe? As we stand at the edge of this new frontier, we must allow ourselves to be carried by that current, to follow it wherever it leads, knowing that the answers may not be what we expect—but that is where the real discovery lies.

To philosophize art history as a medium is to unravel the very fabric of how we interpret visual language, iconography, and the evolution of creative expression. Deconstruction forces us to break apart the layers of meaning we traditionally assign to art history—chronology, genre, cultural context—and treat these layers not as a linear progression but as a complex game of symbols, power dynamics, and evolving interpretations. Art history becomes more than a catalog of movements and styles; it becomes a language, a system of codes and signs that communicates human experience, desire, ideology, and resistance across time.

Art, when deconstructed, reveals itself not just as a reflection of the external world but as a system of meanings governed by rules, a game whose boundaries shift depending on who’s playing and who’s watching. Consider the ways in which we categorize movements: Renaissance, Baroque, Modernism. Each of these terms functions as a “move” in the game, a label that scholars, critics, and institutions use to create order. But to deconstruct art history is to question whether this order truly exists or if it’s an imposition of structure onto something far more chaotic and fluid.

At its core, art communicates through a visual language, a system of signs that we, as viewers, are trained to understand and interpret. In a sense, every artwork becomes a text, full of symbols that can be read. But this reading is not straightforward. The language of art is slippery, full of nuance, ambiguity, and contradiction. A painting is not simply a depiction of a scene; it is a gesture, a performance, a dialogue between the artist, the subject, and the viewer.

Consider how language functions within art: a religious icon from the Byzantine period speaks not only of devotion but also of the political power of the Church. The abstraction of a 20th-century painting speaks not only of form and color but of a rebellion against realism, a refusal to be pinned down to a single interpretation. The language of art is fluid, shifting, and full of competing meanings. In this way, art history becomes a battleground of interpretations, where critics and historians play the game of language, each trying to claim authority over what the work “means.”

Deconstruction asks us to take a step back and question the authority of these interpretations. When we say a work of art is “about” something, we are participating in a linguistic game. But what if we refuse to play by the rules? What if we allow the work to be ambiguous, to resist interpretation? In this sense, deconstructing art history is about embracing the multiplicity of meanings that each artwork contains, allowing it to exist in a state of perpetual openness, where no single interpretation can claim dominance.

To philosophize about art history in this way also requires us to consider the role of power. Who decides what is considered “art”? Who determines which works are preserved, studied, and celebrated? The game of art history is deeply intertwined with systems of power—economic, political, and cultural. Museums, galleries, and academic institutions are not neutral spaces; they are sites where certain narratives are privileged while others are silenced.

The very canon of art history—the list of “great” artists and works—is a product of this power dynamic. Deconstruction forces us to question this canon. Why are certain artists, often white men from Western cultures, elevated to the status of genius while others, often women, people of color, or those from non-Western cultures, are marginalized or erased? This erasure is not accidental; it is part of the game, part of the way power operates within the field of art history. By deconstructing these narratives, we expose the ideological forces at work and open the possibility for new, more inclusive histories to emerge.

The Game’s Language: The Act of Viewing

Viewing art is not a passive act; it is an engagement, a performance in itself. The viewer becomes part of the artwork, bringing their own experiences, biases, and interpretations into the act of seeing. But this act of viewing is not innocent. It is shaped by the context in which the artwork is presented, the language used to describe it, and the expectations placed upon it by history.

In this sense, the “game” of art history is one in which both the artist and the viewer are players. The artist makes certain moves—choosing a style, a subject, a medium—while the viewer makes their own moves in interpreting those choices. But what happens when the viewer refuses to play by the rules, when they reject the traditional ways of seeing and instead engage with the artwork on their own terms? This is where the game’s language breaks down, where new possibilities for understanding emerge.

Art History as Temporal Flux: Rejection of Linearity

Art history is often taught as a linear progression—one movement giving rise to the next, each a reaction to what came before. This is the narrative of progress, where art is seen as constantly evolving, moving towards some ultimate goal or truth. But deconstruction teaches us to reject this linearity. Art history is not a straight line; it is a series of ruptures, disjunctions, and returns.

Think of how postmodern artists like Cindy Sherman or Jean-Michel Basquiat engage with art history. They do not simply follow in the footsteps of their predecessors; they actively dismantle the narratives of art history, remixing and reinterpreting past styles and symbols to create something new. In doing so, they remind us that art history is not a closed system but an open field, where the past is constantly being rewritten in light of the present.

Games, Rules, and Breaking Them

Philosophizing art history as a medium, through deconstruction, is like viewing the entire history of art as a game of language and symbols, a game whose rules are arbitrary but powerful. Yet, the most interesting artists, the ones who stand out, are often those who refuse to play by these rules. They create new forms, break old conventions, and in doing so, they change the game itself.

Just as postmodern philosophers challenge the grand narratives of history and meaning, postmodern artists challenge the grand narratives of art history. They remind us that art is not about following a prescribed path; it is about breaking paths, creating new ones, and sometimes even wandering off the path altogether. In this way, art history becomes not a static field of study but a dynamic process, one that is constantly in flux, constantly being reimagined and reinterpreted.

To philosophize art history through deconstruction is to understand it as an open system, a language that is constantly evolving, full of competing meanings, power struggles, and ruptures. It is a game, yes, but one where the rules are always changing, where every artist and viewer is a player, and where the ultimate meaning of art is always just out of reach. Art history, in this view, is not about finding definitive answers or truths; it is about embracing the ambiguity, the multiplicity, and the chaos that lies at the heart of creative expression.