I'm rowing in the fog. I have my camera in a watertight bag. I'm empty and ready and I'm turning around to find a landing on the beach. The swell breaks slow and heavy.
I'm carrying my shoes while walking barefooted towards the pier. The sand is cold and moist. The overhanging trees are dark and inflamed.
I'm thinking about the Norwegian photographer Kåre Kivijärvi. I'm thinking about his pictures, and nothing about his alcoholism, his troubled life.
The pier is almost empty. Whatever goes on here has almost come to a stand still. I can see a few dark shapes of fishing boats. Single cars and men are creeping around in the gray light.
I'm carrying my shoes while walking barefooted towards the pier. The sand is cold and moist. The overhanging trees are dark and inflamed.
I'm thinking about the Norwegian photographer Kåre Kivijärvi. I'm thinking about his pictures, and nothing about his alcoholism, his troubled life.
The pier is almost empty. Whatever goes on here has almost come to a stand still. I can see a few dark shapes of fishing boats. Single cars and men are creeping around in the gray light.
