Luke Boland, How it felt

Car pulls right, as hands dash to find a tripod, attach the camera, command down a path that appears only made for the people who created it. Walked into with such conviction I was certain it was preplanned. Trees pass as a succulent light ekes out of every pore in the skin of passing woodland, revealing a neutral, almost 'portra' light. As fog descends on the horizon, only does itreveal its true nature when our bodies pass the working homes of the invisible. As we break out to a beach drenched in the kind of light that sends shivers down your spine. Remembering at that moment, nodding to a friend and heading separate ways up and down the beach.

To find a reasoning behind the circumstances the weather threw at us only looks to solve the magical mystery that should not be broken with reasoning. A special moment, a special location, for both observers and participators. Vivid scenes of how it felt become the only memory, each step as if discovering new ground, almost holy, wholly thankful to see what was before us. A scene almost so perfect, recording is not your first reaction, but as time passes, so does the circumstance. To walk back what seems a common path to us as sun breaks the mist on show, reality springs back. Thrown into the depths of financial worry, woes and people living on the brink of survival. Tenuously poaching into the privacy of public land, sculpted by the finding of objects on escapades for cash, a home built, practical yet frail. Passable, but not comfortable. What may seem a paradise scenario can quickly pass into nightmare as the stars take their place in the sky. For the moment of intense beauty is not seen, through their activity and not arriving before the dark hours of night. But for two people with cameras, of different sizes and uses, to stumble across the humble home of the woodland inhabiters. As each step we took was a careful one, as we entered the stairs into the lounge, and back to the bedrooms. For their night capped area can turn into a place of sheer terror, as life is hung on, when people pass them each day avoiding fake watches and handbags.

And to leave, passing a grave, your place in life becomes lucky, something forgotten as our dwells and strains of modern life take hold. But if it was not for the pursuit for photographs this event would not have even reached my memory, and could not be accounted for in my mind. Yet, the strive to step further allowed for incredible beauty, in a picture that can only bewilder our minds. For it aesthetic value, is far beyond ordinary notions of aesthetic.