The glimpses are a collision of photography and writing, somewhere between the lines of photoprose, photopoetry and photojournalism. Every glimpse combines one photo with one text and is printed with a white border. All glimpses are custom orders. If you would like to order any of these artworks, please get in touch:
ALL WAS FEEL | On an afternoon so long ago, I lived a life so far away, where all was feel and none was thought, and no one with me there but me, with all my souls in both my soles, my eyes so keen to feed my heart, which longed for the moment I was in more than for any other part. And every house I came across was a home that was mine too, where I lived all sorts of fleeting lives, on an afternoon so long ago.
SUNFLOWER CEMETERY | And when they ask us why all the sunflowers are dead, we'll just tell them the truth.
LIVES I’VE NEVER LIVED | When I see you and the place you call home so tenderly, it reminds me of a life I’ve never lived, a dream I’ve never dreamed; but my longing is painless, my melancholy sweet, my smile pure.
CANDY | World, give us candy, give us city, shower our aspirations of more with more aspirations, let us play a little longer, hide and seek in the dark, our shadows ripping the wrapper of night wide open.
JOURNEY | In the end, the journey wasn't all that much about traveling.
ASTRAY | A stray, miles astray the paved way, right on track.
GOOSEBUMPS OF OUR PRIME | Half way there, half way here, some road ahead, some in the mirror. Every fork the right way. No desert wasteland wasted on us. Passion reactors, fueled by horizon hopes and longings to linger, bound to burst. Destination none. Freedom encounters. Don’t need a thing, much less everything. Dreams yes, love perchance. Bright light leaving dark marks under our skin. Friendly risks, more firsts than lasts, pain painted over. Goosebumps of our prime.
TIME SHARDS | Then I slowly turned around, wiped the dust off my shoulders, and started picking up those time shards. The youth yonders and coastal frontiers, where we lost wasted fears in our liquor tears. Disposable second selves we stole from supermarket shelves, honest robberies with indifferent intentions, our knuckles still so shy. Those bright nights of twisted lights and burning turns, when muddy visions made for handsome decisions. The way molten words dripped from our fire lips and galactic hopes boiled in our kettle hearts. Soul runs to the nearest heaven, blind break-ins at the wrong gates, trespassing artists with wings for feet. Just once more I want to climb onto those rolling stones that were our shaky thrones, put on my filthy crown to cover this metallic frown, find golden change in my leaky pockets, drink from rusty faucets, bathe in the flickering dreams of emerald streams where I sing my silent song forever long, walk through those lava marshlands, sinking into the dawn with a most innocent yawn.
STORIES | Every story has a different story and each single one is interlaced with at least one other, from the first to the last. Complex and tall do they pile, warm and cold, bright and dark to be unraveled step by step by those with the curiosity and courage to keep climbing up and down.
WHEN WE ARE | Come graze with us on this silky autumn air, feed off its slowly cooling warmth, sinking late tonight with all the colors making out. Now that the night leaks into the valley, it flushes shivering chills and atomic pulp down the marrow, beautifully, and we slingshot our dreams into the firmament to never land, and we, too, never land while a flock of feelings soars deep inside our selves. We’re nimble, lean but full with a full filling of passion for passion. Drowsy drifters slashing their own sails, we wake up to a dream life, the world our living room, an entire universe for a ceiling, our jest fest uninterrupted on this phantom stage. When we are, everything is.
DENSE SOUL | Fenced in by elbows for much too long, his escape from civilization was a matter of survival. The city’s plots were convoluted and twisted and their fragile pleasures could never carry the entirety of his dense soul. Spinning inside that centrifuge of light and deluded realities, his core got pushed outwards to the societal rim, the first and final frontier, where his heavy heart began, finally, to gravitate towards nature’s pull. The city had had it all, but nature had something more, something more profound, something truer. Neither cruel nor benevolent, the plots of the wild were simply what they were, honest and pure, written by life and his conscious partaking in it.
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