Certain towns paint themselves into your memory.
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500gsm · 100% cotton · Hahnemühle Photo Rag · Archival pigment inks · 6 × 18 cm · Matte finish.
Été series · 16 of 20 different sets.
Catalogue Nº 076 of 100.
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You arrive slightly skeptical, because you have already seen too many photographs of the place on too many feeds. The light goes soft, you walk down a lane, and within twenty minutes you understand. Two days later you are buying a tagine you will never use, exchanging numbers with the owner of a riad, and quietly considering whether you really need to go home on Sunday. Some places earn the reputation, and the photographs were always going to be a small part of it.
Chefchaouen, in northern Morocco, the entire old town painted in versions of the same blue. Nobody is sure when the painting started. The town keeps repainting it every spring, that part is documented. From the hills above, with the agaves in the foreground, the place looks less like a city and more like a single very large idea, agreed on by everybody and maintained without instructions.
Sits alongside Hideous Kinky by Esther Freud, In Arabian Nights by Tahir Shah, or any book brought home from a trip you keep telling friends they should take.
The summers you actually remember are usually three or four days of one specific summer. A particular town. A particular light. A particular evening when nobody was in a hurry. The rest of June, July, and August blurs into a single warm continent of weeks. The point is that those three or four days happened, and that the year refused to end for as long as they lasted. You spend the rest of the year hoping to bump into them again.
