Right before our foolish country pushed the clocks forward, I was up early enough to capture two scenes of light. The first was the light from the window, the second was from the additional illumination from a single lamp. What light, what warmth, emanates from its fringed opulence, and what a luxury light feels like after such a dark winter.
In the stillness of this dawn, the light makes its own sound – not in the clicking of a switch or some crackling of electrical current, but in the soft shifting of its intensity and luminosity. It is the soft and muffled sound of a glow, like the whisper of a willow’s strands on the cusp of chartreuse.
Stirrings.
Beginnings.
And endings.
On the wind, in the light, the Springing…
