The monthly is an excercise for me to collect, roumage, and revisit my archive in an attempt to bring images together under a feeling, concept, phrase, word, moment, etc that I feel close to at this time.
Often, I disregard past images because they dont reflect my current line of work, dont fit in any project or section to include in my portfolio, or becasue I dont feel as proud of them as I once did. Still, those pictures, and me taking them, enveloped the entirety of my existance at one moment, which is enough to give them a space and the respect they deserve, not only as images, but as moments to recall.
M03
"We finally found a winter for your sweater" - Picture Me Better, Weyes Blood.
I love this verse because it feels immensely warm, tender, and intimate. It stirs in me a feeling that is deep in my structure. It permeates past my skin and spreads behind my shoulder blades like a dry warm shower.
It reminds me of something I wrote a long time ago for a story, and which I feel closer to, sometimes more than others. I do now.
"We finally found a winter for your sweater" - Picture Me Better, Weyes Blood.
I love this verse because it feels immensely warm, tender, and intimate. It stirs in me a feeling that is deep in my structure. It permeates past my skin and spreads behind my shoulder blades like a dry warm shower.
It reminds me of something I wrote a long time ago for a story, and which I feel closer to, sometimes more than others. I do now.
It was a long lake and a road. It was, I told Jane that moment, “a very simple sight.” A long stretch of water, with the kind of things one would associate with a lake, and a road, twisting parallel to the lake, and not doing much more.
The sky purple, the usual tone of blue for that time of the year in the lake, the trees brushing and tumbling against each other.
Ten kilometers away, a calmness swept through the northern towns and their empty streets. One that would cross the lake lifting gushes of water, and surged through our house and its corridors of doors and courtains. Which made silence with the trees in the back garden, shooting its way up the eastern side of the ridge.
The sky purple, the usual tone of blue for that time of the year in the lake, the trees brushing and tumbling against each other.
Ten kilometers away, a calmness swept through the northern towns and their empty streets. One that would cross the lake lifting gushes of water, and surged through our house and its corridors of doors and courtains. Which made silence with the trees in the back garden, shooting its way up the eastern side of the ridge.
...
II
I write this from a bus. The light fades abruptly between the warmth inside the cabin and the bulbs in the street. All sound is layered between the grounded hum of the engine and the bursts of rain and wind hitting the roof. The air is moist and clings to the windows. There are a dozen of passengers at most. There is a red clock alternating between the time and the temperature. Every hour it gets a degree colder.
III
I’ve arrived to this time of the year with a great sense of nostalgia. It’s also a time of great changes. It so happens that in Spain, those changes are dramatic, with little time to enjoy the tenderness of the breeze, and the embrace of summertime’s end.
IV
Much you did hide from him thus: in the awful night
you rid his room of fear and from the refuge
of your heart took out a comfroting breath,
filling with human shape his empty night.
- Reiner Maria Rilke - Third Elegie, Duino Elegies, 1923
I write this from a bus. The light fades abruptly between the warmth inside the cabin and the bulbs in the street. All sound is layered between the grounded hum of the engine and the bursts of rain and wind hitting the roof. The air is moist and clings to the windows. There are a dozen of passengers at most. There is a red clock alternating between the time and the temperature. Every hour it gets a degree colder.
III
I’ve arrived to this time of the year with a great sense of nostalgia. It’s also a time of great changes. It so happens that in Spain, those changes are dramatic, with little time to enjoy the tenderness of the breeze, and the embrace of summertime’s end.
IV
Much you did hide from him thus: in the awful night
you rid his room of fear and from the refuge
of your heart took out a comfroting breath,
filling with human shape his empty night.
- Reiner Maria Rilke - Third Elegie, Duino Elegies, 1923
V