Driving To The Lake

The day is profoundly hushed. The wind’s whisper is all that can be heard as it weaves around wisps of tawny colored hair. A solitary figure surrounded by foliage. He twists himself within naked, gnarly, mottled trees. He embraces them, adding himself to their imperfections, coloring the bareness of their branches like leaves in Autumn. His striped shirt lies perpendicular to the bench’s wooden planks. The sun brings warmth to his face and relaxes into his clothes, settling there silently with him for a while. The etchings on the railing behind him echo the presence of those who have visited these woods before. What unique mark will his visit leave here?

Marbled knit rests against grey plaster, the interwoven cables of the sweater mimic the branches winding around each other. He balances on the fence, his dark colors blending in with the wood's grain. The water sitting behind him is calm, as if waiting to catch him if he tips over the edge. Atop the fence, it feels as if everything else has dropped to the ground. Brown leaves flattened by footfalls and an algae-washed lakebed. An aperture in the thicket creates a mould in which perhaps only he can fit. Everything has been put to bed. Maybe all that floats beneath his surface can rest too.

Jens sees Beatrice Salomone’s lens watching, like a hummingbird fluttering in place. She captures him carefully to not disturb the nature around her. His image materialises later in dark baths, through hand printing. Mirroring the day, the process is slow, careful, silent. It reflects his image just as the still lake does. But this one answers; “The trees are with him and so are its leaves that have fallen at his feet. Nature provides solace in his solitude.”