Empty is a place, not a description.
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500gsm · 100% cotton · Hahnemühle Photo Rag · Archival pigment inks · 6 × 18 cm · Matte finish.
Deserts series · 4 of 20 different sets.
Catalogue Nº 017 of 100.
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The Sunday with nothing on the calendar arrives quietly and ends up being where the most important decision of the year is made, by mid-afternoon, on a chair you do not usually sit in. The walk you took only to leave the house turns into the conversation with yourself that opens a door. The morning the meeting was cancelled becomes the morning the year actually began. Nothing was happening. That was the point.
The Empty Quarter covers a quarter of a million square kilometres in the south of the Arabian peninsula, where almost no rain has fallen this century. People have crossed it. People still cross it. They come back not with stories of what happened but with a different kind of attention than the one they took in. Whatever the desert does, it does it slowly, and at no charge.
Belongs in the same shelf as Arabian Sands by Wilfred Thesiger, The Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes, or any book read on a weekend you tell people afterwards was uneventful, knowing it was not.
A desert is a place where most things have already happened, very slowly. The wind moved a million tons of sand a few millimetres a year. The light learned to do everything: copper at dawn, white at noon, long blue shadows at four in the afternoon. There is no one to talk to. The horizon reaches further than the eye is used to. You stop checking your phone because there is nothing to compete with the silence.
