The houses you carry around live partly in your head.
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500gsm · 100% cotton · Hahnemühle Photo Rag · Archival pigment inks · 6 × 18 cm · Matte finish.
Lavendel series · 7 of 20 different sets.
Catalogue Nº 034 of 100.
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The grandmother is dead. The cousins sold the place. The family does not own a single stone of it any more. You still know where the key used to hang. You still know which step creaks. You drive past once a decade and check the cypress is still there. As long as it is, the place is still partly yours, in the only way that ever mattered.
In Provence somewhere, a small farmhouse stands at the edge of a lavender field with a single cypress beside it. The walls hold the heat of the day long after the sun is gone, the way the walls of certain houses do, and the way certain memories do too. You do not get over the people you have lost in places like this. You learn to keep visiting them at the kitchen table, at certain windows, at the bottom of a particular path.
A natural fit for Gilead by Marilynne Robinson, the stories of Alice Munro, or any book read in the slow hour before the lamps come on.
A lavender field in late afternoon does most of its work through the nose. The heat is still hanging on, the light starts to soften, and the air fills with a smell so familiar that you remember it before you have time to identify it. Bees. Warm earth. Something dry and herbaceous and clean. You stand at the edge of the rows and the whole season seems to have arrived all at once.
