Build a wall. Plant a flower. Wait a hundred years.
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500gsm · 100% cotton · Hahnemühle Photo Rag · Archival pigment inks · 6 × 18 cm · Matte finish.
Lavanda series · 7 of 20 different sets.
Catalogue Nº 032 of 100.
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The plant wins, almost every time. Take any old farm where the work has stopped, where the wall has cracked, where the door is gone and the well dry, and chances are there is something still growing on it. A rose, a fig, a grapevine somebody put in seventy years ago and never came back for. A bit of lavender that escaped the field and decided the doorstep was as good a place as any. Whatever the soil remembers, it remembers in green.
On the plateau in Provence where the lavender is grown, you keep finding little stone ruins among the rows. Cabanons, mostly. Buildings where the harvest used to be sorted, where the flowers were once distilled while still warm. Walls softened back into the colour of the soil. The people who built them are several generations dead. Their lavender is still here. Somebody else's grandchildren are cutting it now.
Reads alongside Pig Earth by John Berger, The Shepherd's Life by James Rebanks, or any book about the long quiet between the work and the harvest.
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.
