Taking a good photograph of the inhabitants of the Faerie Realm is no easy undertaking. Some would say it was only for the foolhardy – either there are is no such realm, purely myth, …… or else, a real and dangerous place, ……… Make then what you will of the accompanying image.
Setting the camera in just the right light between shadow and motion, entrance and exit, interior and exterior – catch the glimmer of fleeting memory as it dwindles down the door hinges and through the dust smeared window’s reflection. Watch as a smokey-lit scene grows in the grain of wood and the fractured glass. Like murmurs of a choir heard in the turning of a chapel keyhole, there is a fluttering sigh. It develops into form , light painting across peculiar aged paper, stained with recollection of another history.
Finally, fixed in the darkness of half sleep, a scent of roses emerges from the scene – grandmother’s garden is full, growing music played on petals and thorns. Kisses heal fingers pricked with excitement and anticipation – caterpillar perils await the unwary. The shutter snaps tight – who is captured ? The lens, a dew-drop on spider silk, holds viewer and the viewed. In an instant both are entwined – old pages yellow, print changes to uncertain tongues, edges crumble and fall upon a winding trail. Is this the way to or from ?