The hill turns red because the year is closing its books.
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500gsm · 100% cotton · Hahnemühle Photo Rag · Archival pigment inks · 6 × 18 cm · Matte finish.
Autumn series · 1 of 20 different sets.
Catalogue Nº 005 of 100.
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By late October you have a fair sense of what kind of year it has been. The promotions that came through and the ones that didn't. The friends you got round to seeing and the ones you put off again. The book you finished, the one you abandoned in March, the one still sitting on the table waiting for the right week. Nobody is keeping score. You are keeping score anyway.
This is a vineyard in northern Italy in late October. Reds, oranges, the last greens on the same hillside. The yellow farmhouse at the top has its windows open in the afternoon and closed by six. The harvest is finished or close. What came off the rows this year is now in barrels in a cool room. What came off your year is another kind of inventory, and you make it more or less honestly depending on the hour.
Goes well with Tender Is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Hundred-Foot Journey by Richard C. Morais, or any book read with a glass of something the calendar made possible.
There is a week each year, usually somewhere between mid-October and early November, when you start walking slower without deciding to. The air gets sharp. The light slants. Wet leaves stick to your shoes and you notice the smell of woodsmoke from a chimney you cannot see. The year is changing its mind, and so are you.
