There are doors made of water you can walk behind.
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500gsm · 100% cotton · Hahnemühle Photo Rag · Archival pigment inks · 6 × 18 cm · Matte finish.
Cascate series · 19 of 20 different sets.
Catalogue Nº 094 of 100.
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You walk behind the waterfall and the wall of water is between you and the rest of the world. The sound is a continuous applause that does not get louder when you step into it because the sound is already as loud as it can be. The path is wet, the rock is wet, your hood is up. Then you turn around. The sun has decided to come through the water, low, on its way out. The world has rearranged itself for thirty minutes, and you have been given a different angle on it.
In southern Iceland, near the bottom of a coastal range, a long single waterfall pours over a mossy ledge with enough room behind it for a path. Local people know the half hour at the end of the day when the angle is right. They drive over to be there for it. They leave with their coats damp and their evening rearranged.
A natural fit for Breath by Tim Winton, Burial Rites by Hannah Kent, or any book read after walking somewhere wet enough to change your clothes and your mind.
You hear a waterfall before you see it. The sound arrives from a few hundred metres away, lifts the trees a little, and gets louder as you walk in. Then the air changes. It gets cooler, the leaves are wet, and a fine mist settles on the lens and on your face. You stand at the foot of it for a minute, then five, and after a while you notice that the sound is not noise. It is white air, and the rest of your head is starting to clear.
