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| From Greece to England. |
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| It started under a grey sky. But not a colour absent sky. |
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| The beauty and magic of the city always stirs something in me. |
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| Culture poured out in a paper cup. |
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| The stunning parks and 'secret' gardens in London offer serenity in such a big and busy city. |
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| Strong, bold industrial shapes are features of London that I find absolutely irresistible. |
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| Last night we walked past Parliament and stayed for a while to see the projections thrown from across the Thames. It was quiet. Calm. Beautiful. |
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| It was a very hot August day. The sun was warm against my skin. I put my Oscar Wilde away and opened up my lace-inspired parasol instead. The light that fell through the umbrella seemed to imitate the shadows that the branches of the trees made on earth's floor. |
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| I spent a wonderful few hours next to a fervent stream, my feet submerged in the cool water. I slowly started drinking in the beauty of this English Garden in the heart of München. The garden, a peaceful place, informal enough in style to assume the likes of a natural forest. The perfect place to think of light and wondrous things. |
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| My delight, however, was disturbed when I knocked my very dear sunglasses into the current as I got up. A very sad loss. I was distraught to say the very least. There are few things that can make a sad heart feel better. But luckily I got distracted by the pretty shadows that my parasol made on walls and floors on my way to the city's centre. |
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| Yet, after a wonderful walk in a summery beautiful city, I realized that my sunglasses are at least replaceable (even though at a cost). It wasn't the end of the world. Minutes later I realized how lively everything was around me. And I saw a beautiful world. At Karlsplatz, Springbrunnen am Stachus, I decided to decorate the sky, for the sky can sometimes become a bit predictable. I often wonder if clouds sometimes repeat their shapes, because people do not always notice that they're there. But that would be a dull, cheap trick. Or to the contrary: a very difficult pose to reassume - considering all those travelling molecules. |
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| As I sat in the Frauen Kirche, I let my thoughts run wild for a while. And then: that wholesome stillness. What a wonderful grace: to renew one's mind. Outside, in a new light, I set up a few shots in a "lone traveller" kind of fashion. A couple of elderly gentlemen with their ladies passed me and enjoyed the classic take on sun protection. I got a lot of "classic"s and "schön"s. They were all so appreciative. And at the end of the day I was unburned. Let all the ladies stay cool and carry parasols. |
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| I settled down next to a stream in the late afternoon. The temperature just perfect. A picnic by myself. And then: that soft light that I remembered from another day, another time. As a distraction, a series of shameless self portraits continued. Then: my book again. Wilde continued in two voices and with one heart: ERNEST: "Well, while you have been playing, I have been turning over the pages with some amusement, though, as a rule, I dislike modern memoirs. They are generally written by people who have either entirely lost their memories, or have never done anything worth remembering; which, however, is, no doubt, the true explanation of their popularity, as the English public always feels perfectly at ease when a mediocrity is talking to it." GILBERT: "Yes: the public is wonderfully tolerant. It forgives everything except genius. But I must confess that I like all memoirs. I like them for their form, just as much as for their matter. In literature mere egotism is delightful... Whenever we come across it, and, strangely enough, it is rather rare, we cannot but welcome it, and do not easily forget it." |
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| After a plump heart of strawberry and lemon ice cream, it was inevitable to be that kid who would twirl on the grass till sunset. |
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The locals were quite oblivious to how remarkable their lives really were. In an everyday manner, the devotees dusted the statues in the square with neon powder, some leaving rice and flowers at the feet or claws of these figures.
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School boys wandered off to their early morning class over the baked earth bricks. And every now and again a bicycle sped past, winding through the statues and figures, passing old temples. Some dating back to 1427. A mystical joyride, it seemed.
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The elders going about with their quiet lives.
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| A stone elephant looks out over the red square as a woman walks past. |
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| The quiet and beautiful people of Nepal. And the energy of the playful kids. |
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As the morning light became brighter, the smidgens of red reverently made their appearance. Each an inaudible wake.
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I looked at a beautiful entrance to a temple. A deep cool red peeked out from behind the wood carved pillars and doors. I wanted to take a photograph. Then a man entered my peripheral frame and slowly proceeded until he vanished through the door. Then there was a silence in the square. Not a person, not a pigeon in sight. For a moment the colours of a lost world faded and almost turned into a black and white photograph. Just another history book image. And I thought I had seen things that weren’t real. I turned around to go back home, and suddenly all life came back. In full colour. A bell rang, dogs were barking, pigeons flew overhead, people walked past, and greeted me with sunshine warmth: “Namaste.”
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