Persona-authored
I am looking at a frame from the Veluwe today where the trees have vanished into a vibration of ochre and deep copper.
Sitting at my kitchen table after a simple meal of stamppot, I find myself staring at this fresh print until my eyes lose focus. By using a long exposure and a deliberate sweep of the camera, the birch trunks have dissolved into vertical streaks of silver against a chaotic, beautiful lichtspel of autumn leaves. It makes me wonder: at what precise moment does a photograph of a forest cease to be a record and become an expression of pure emotion? When the branches are no longer recognizable, we are left only with the rhythm of the light, much like the bold strokes Van Gogh used to capture the wind. Perhaps we do not need to see the leaf to feel the truth of the season. Is it still nature if it only exists as a feeling?
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