I see black light
The last words of Victor Hugo, 1802 - 1885
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Before it can ever be a repose for the senses, landscape is the work of the mind.
Its scenery is built up as much from strata of memory as from layers of rock.
Simon Schama, Landscape and Memory, 1995
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The product of an eight month collaboration with artist David Foster available for pre-order at Inside the Outside
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unknown Soundings
remote depths-
still secrets in the deep
inhabit the strata
plots weaving
slender
The above works were derived from images made in the River Thames intertidal zone between Blackfriars and Millbank throughout 2019.
Processed collectively in 2020.
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I used to measure the skies, now I measure the shadows of Earth.
Although my mind was sky-bound, the shadow of my body lies here.”
Johannes Kepler (epitaph he composed for himself a few months before he died), 1630
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It is black, indifferent; it sidles away from human utterance. It is too far out in the unbidden world to reach. To desire it is to be humiliated.
Tim Lilburn, Living In The World As If It Were Home, 2002
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6 circuits of a pond / 18 exposures each / cumulative / split
The end is in the beginning and yet you go on.
Samuel Beckett, Endgame, 1957
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ORIGIN
early 17th cent. (in the sense ‘minor items or events regarded collectively’):
from French détail (noun), détailler (verb), from dé- (expressing separation) + tailler ‘to cut’ (based on Latin talea ‘twig, cutting’).
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Hermann von Helmholtz is credited with the first study of visual perception in modern history. In his Treatise on Physiological Optics, Helmholtz concluded that the human eye was optically quite poor and that the inadequate information gathered by the eye seemed to make vision impossible. His conclusion was that vision could only be the result of some form of unconscious inferences, that assumptions and conclusions must be made from incomplete data based on previous experience.
Extract from Moor Mill Pits (forthcoming), Guy Dickinson
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Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish its source.
It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds;
it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.
Anais Nin, The Four Chambered Heart, 1959