The Breath of Winter

The air in mid-winter has a sharp, metallic edge that catches in the back of the throat, tasting faintly of iron and frozen pine needles. When the cold is this absolute, it stops being a temperature and becomes a physical weight, pressing against the skin like a heavy wool blanket that has been left out in the frost. I remember the feeling of wool mittens stiffened by ice, the way the fabric scrapes against the knuckles, and the silence that follows a heavy snowfall—a silence so thick it rings in the ears. It is a hollow, ringing quiet that makes you feel small, as if the world has held its breath to watch something unfold in the dark. We are often told that the cold is an enemy, but there is a strange, humming comfort in being completely surrounded by a stillness that demands nothing from you. Does the body ever truly forget the sensation of being held by the winter, or does it simply wait for the next shiver to remind us we are still here?

Ryan Marquis has captured this feeling in his work titled Aurora Borealis. The way the light spills across the frame feels like the very breath of that frozen night. Can you feel the chill settling into your bones as you look at it?