old years' melancholia

New Years Eve is always one of the strangest and most curios days. 

It is the last day of this year. 

The year itself feels as old as time at this point. It has been patient and tolerant. It had to be, to survive all the accusations, defamations and insults of it's harsh critics. To live through all the vulgarities of the people, that it so generously provided with 365 days. 

Now the old year looks back at it's work and is quite content despite all the horrors, weirdness and catastrophes it saw. After all, there have been good moments as well. Moments filled with laughter, incredible happiness and almost impossible love.

There have been worse years. Better years as well, to be completely honest, but a year can only do so much.

Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter. 

It worked through all of it, and is about to lay it's weary head to rest and die.

It is time to end it's time. 

Now and finally, cut-off from all hopes, expectations and strong impulses; it remains just a another year in a long line of years past and years to come.

Nothing special, but nothing ordinary either. 

A year is a year. 

Nothing more and nothing less.

It only provides us with time and it is up to us to decide what to do with the days, hours and seconds given to us.

Photograph by eve arnold and me.

Sonntagskinder

We were sunday-children this weekend. Flimsy and unburdened. 

Just for a few moments. We invented games, remembered old ones and talked about the sound of a common sunday-afternoon. When you remain in silence, you can hear the glimmering cracks of heat meeting the light noise of the wind playing in the leaves while the grass molds slowly into hay. You can hear all kinds of humming and buzzing of natures little creatures and sometimes a light splitting of wood somewhere.

We sought a lot of words in and for this sounds. Some of them complicated, some of them simple, every single one of them wonderful and unique. 

Sometimes we didn't find the right words, so we made some up and isn't that the beauty of language, really?

You can put some weird shaped tiny figures together and combine them to something meaningful. 

Maybe not for everyone and the world, but meaningful to yourself.

You are then the only person, that can make sense out of this "rubbish", absurdity and chaos of letters  on a sheet of paper or in your mind and that is in a way like having a secret with the language itself.

You can choose to share this secret, to keep it or to write down words that everybody understands. Whichever you choose it all leads up to you telling a story.

Beautiful things belong to beautiful souls.

 graphics by andy gilmore; photography by me

for scientific reason

“All men have stars, but they are not the same things for different people. 

For some, who are travelers, the stars are guides. For others they are no more than little lights in the sky. For others, who are scholars, they are problems...

 But all these stars are silent. You-You alone will have stars as no one else has them... 

In one of the stars I shall be living. In one of them I shall be laughing. And so it will be as if all the stars will be laughing when you look at the sky at night...

You, only you, will have stars that can laugh! And when your sorrow is comforted (time soothes all sorrows) you will be content that you have known me... 

You will always be my friend. 

You will want to laugh with me. 

And you will sometimes open your window, so, for that pleasure...

 It will be as if, in place of the stars, I had given you a great number of little bells that knew how to laugh” 

- the little prince - 

photography by margaret durow and me

boy in the stars: simon  

conte philosophique

We lived in an Evelyn Waugh novel today, took each others hands and walked through botanical gardens hidden between ruinous industrial areas. We talked about art, wine and the beauty of heartbeats. We crowned our fairy queen and listened to the conversations of people walking by as we wanted to remain in silence. 

We were magical creatures, beautiful with that epicene quality that sang aloud for love and withers at the first cold wine.

It may not have been the first day of an early summer, but it was the first day unburdened by the echo of a long lasting winter.

photography of days like literature and pastel ice-cream-dreams:

lena 

and parker fitzgerald for kinfolk-mag#7

Schmetterlingsnetze

 

Smokerings slowly drifting away and apart are maybe the purest image of a captured moment. Fragile, transfigured and gone in a blink.

Like time, music and smoke moments often blend together and this distinct fusion gives them the final perfection.

photography by allison scarpulla and me