Postcard Series – Amsterdam
Yesterday, I had a space-cake; I spent my day in an exploding kaleidoscope. Now I’m standing in front of Van Gogh’s best work. It’s a dizzy whirl of colours and emotions, pain and joy, each cut, stabbed, smudged and gently kissed by a stroke of his brush. The space-cake was fine, but this is what I guess they call a real high.
Amsterdam, July 2011
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I’ve taken to writing (myself) postcards when travelling. I’ve this image in my head, of me, thirty-forty years down the line, going through stacks of yellowing postcards, and thinking about the good old days, a cup of hot chai in hand.
Postcard Series – Paris
I’m stepping into a picture that is made of paper and ink. I walk amidst the dusty aisles, running my fingertips against titles, new and old. So many words in one tiny space; I soak them in one by one.
Paris, July 2010
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I’ve taken to writing (myself) postcards when travelling. I’ve this image in my head, of me, thirty-forty years down the line, going through stacks of yellowing postcards, and thinking about the good old days, a cup of hot chai in hand.
Postcard Series – Paris
There’s a person in a gorilla suit running about the base of the Eiffel, a hairy black blur between the metal of the tower and the colours of summer. The gorilla poses with kids for a few Euros parents are willing to shell for a novelty photo. The rest of the time it offers to pose for a few Euros or chats with the armed cops and vendors, always running and hopping, waving its hairy arms, wearing a phantom smile. It must be hard having that job during a heat wave.
Paris, July 2010
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I’ve taken to writing (myself) postcards when travelling. I’ve this image in my head, of me, thirty-forty years down the line, going through stacks of yellowing postcards, and thinking about the good old days, a cup of hot chai in hand.
Postcard Series – Korčula
The water is filthy. Marko at the marina says the garbage is coming from Albania. I almost laugh but there is anger in his words, rough and volatile.
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The town within the walls is tiny crooked lanes and large structures, all made of stone. It creates an illusion of space in a place where it’s impossible to get lost.
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From the pizzeria along the walls I can see the water, and the frantic clean-up operation. I order a pizza called ‘Stari Grad’ – Old Town; it has aubergine on it and is surprisingly good.
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It’s getting darker. The fishing boats are pulling out. The garbage is lost in the darkness. Korčula is beautiful again.
Korčula, Croatia, May 2010
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I’ve taken to writing (myself) postcards when travelling. I’ve this image in my head, of me, thirty-forty years down the line, going through stacks of yellowing postcards, and thinking about the good old days, a cup of hot chai in hand.
