O, how difficult... O, how hard to look through sunlight, to peer through the fingers, to squint, to find the path through the desert of the self. How solid its outcrops! How rough its grasses! How hard the wind blows... and the only flag a flag of dust in this dry, dry country. The only thing to see - the sun, silhouetting, making, forming a body out of the heat.
Tristan J. Watson searches, strides the raw earth, watched, watched by us, by the photographer, Kristin Ellis, by the evanescent light. He is sculpted by his own desire to find... to find what? Some sense of gravity, some sense of presence, some sense of something other than the beauty of landscape and a lone figure? In a landscape defined by the friction between a soft body and solid rock, what else can be found?
Listen. We are forged in the space between earth and the horizon. Like a thread, we connect dirt and sky - our dreams running from one to the other, keeping things together. This vertical life, the wandering life, is all we have. We move, always looking among the rocks, in the dry grasses, the sun-baked shadows, for something we cannot name. There can only be one end to our endless pacing.