The Grit of Looking
The taste of city air is always metallic, a thin coating of iron and exhaust that settles on the back of the tongue. I remember pressing my forehead against a cold, smudged pane of glass in a train station, the vibration of the tracks humming…
The Salt on the Skin
The smell of damp wood always brings me back to the riverbank, to the way the air feels heavy and thick, like a wet wool blanket draped over the shoulders. It is a scent of rot and rebirth, of silt stirred up from the bottom by a wooden oar.…
The Weight of Shadows
There is a peculiar geometry to the way we inhabit a space after the sun has retreated. During the day, we are defined by our movements, by the tasks we set for ourselves and the clarity of the horizon. But when the light fails, the world undergoes…