Non è mai puntuale - He is never on time.
Short series of photographs taken on travels across the coast of Italy 2017 with my little tin can Olympus Trip 35mm camera. The quality is as relaxed as the culture.
The Northern Lights presented itself the way cream falls into a freshly made expresso. Stood beneath with liquid bones dizzied by its secrecy. This was the first time I had seem this stripe of light through the sky, moulded to the stars and surrounding mountains. It satisfies your inner child who was always patronised by societies version of magic, the man stood pulling a rabbit from his hat. Here I was drunk on light, watching a performance that laughed at how shrunken our brains have become. This is magic, fuck you, here I am. It was fleeting, but left an imprint of vivid memory, the way dreams do in the first 10 minutes of waking. City nights deprive us from looking upwards. Here, you live on an axes of bones. The fluid that allows us to move is as alive as the nights sky. I am never to be satisfied by mans magic, when nature says it all in a fleeting moment. It does not need an encore to feed its meaning. It just is.
A FEW WORDS ON HOW THE HORIZON BREAKS THE NOOSE INTO DARKNESS
ICELAND 2017. WEEK ONE.
Exploring patterns of the way in which we coexist with the orchestra of light is its own task within Iceland. An unsettled gaggle of vampire-esque behaviour in the dark, constantly lit by candle light and the face of snow trodden beneath your feet. The elements keep you sharp between the ears, the formidable red earlobe and brushed pink skin. Fingertips lost to the biting wind combined by an endless trickery of visions cast by snow, storms and the expanse of night sky. Snow drifts mimic their own ancestral river current as they travel far and wide enveloping the space into illusions. I am told that Inuit culture has over 50 words/terms for snow alone. The more time I spend in the mountains I feel in tune with that restlessness in not being satisfied with so little vocabulary to explain such an elemental renegade.
The sun seems to be stuck proudly at a height, as if a child cant quite reach the exact spot where it should be. It boasts its in-between position, in a golden globe of light that turns the snow capped mountains pink. Every part of the town is varnished in a biblical light as the water reverberates its presence. The moon however, is like the friend at the party that seems to be everywhere at once. Many nights I have walked to the local library and the moon quite literally jumps around the sky, as bright as the sun.
Its a powerful place to be, to breathe. Silence. Only the elements move here, you need not move at all. When you fall out of the cycle of your routine being dictated by light, your motivation is transformed. You learn to respect it, learn it and move at your own pace. With so much darkness in these winter months, you find your body actively resisting it. Watching the community, it becomes clear that our westernised culture seems to have a few (many) of the fundamental pressures wrong. This small fishing town has reformed time, and with it, an organic identity.