You arrive in a familiar forest, but everything feels unfamiliar.
Unfamiliar trees, unfamiliar rocks, an unfamiliar river. Even the water flowed strangely — as if in the wrong direction. The banks were like nothing I’d seen before: felled trunks, charred stumps, stones arranged in a circle around a long-cold firepit. Who had been here? Why? How many years had passed since then? Or centuries?
The forest existed on its own — indifferent, black and white. I was indifferent too.
I ended up with these images, taken in that gloomy forest on one of the gloomiest days of my life. It felt as though I’d been in David Lynch’s world.
Unfamiliar trees, unfamiliar rocks, an unfamiliar river. Even the water flowed strangely — as if in the wrong direction. The banks were like nothing I’d seen before: felled trunks, charred stumps, stones arranged in a circle around a long-cold firepit. Who had been here? Why? How many years had passed since then? Or centuries?
The forest existed on its own — indifferent, black and white. I was indifferent too.
I ended up with these images, taken in that gloomy forest on one of the gloomiest days of my life. It felt as though I’d been in David Lynch’s world.
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