The Salt on the Skin

The air near the water has a specific weight, a dampness that clings to the back of the throat like cold wool. I remember the taste of salt on my lips after a long day spent walking the shoreline, the way the wind pulls at your hair until it feels stiff and tangled with brine. There is a particular ache in the soles of the feet when you have walked over uneven, sun-baked stones for hours, a dull throb that reminds you that you are anchored to the earth. We spend so much of our lives looking for a place to stand, a point of stillness in the middle of a restless, churning world. We want to be the one thing that does not move, even as the tides pull at our ankles and the seasons shift the ground beneath us. Does the stone remember the hands that built it, or does it only know the rhythm of the spray against its skin? When the light fades, where does the body go to find its quiet?

Fabrizio Bues has captured this feeling in his work titled A Simple Lighthouse. It is a portrait of endurance that makes me want to lean into the wind and listen to the waves. Does this image stir a memory of a place where you once stood still?