This digest revels in the in-between, the transitional, the presence of absence. My camera with its dials and knobs and sharp focus has taken me into the blur of things. It has taught me that because things can't be measured it doesn't mean that it isn't there. The spirit of things, the essence of our places is as real as my shutter button.
Adam is more than a bookbinder; he is a Time Lord, a guardian of this precious conduit to history, enshrining fragile hooks to the past with a love and dedication that has taken him over 14 years to hone.
I know it all sounds a little odd, and men don’t usually talk about these things, but I feel that what happened to me during that time was miraculous, and miraculous things should be shouted from the rooftops.
Inside the nave, the vaulting is a vast geometry caught in Medusa’s gaze, but here the softened, soapy Caen unfurls fern-like.
I've rarely been to a place that so deeply embodies the human need to express their hopes and fears through architecture.
This is one of the most powerful pieces of nonverbal communication I have encountered. In our modern age, the equivalent might be Edvard Munch’s The Scream.
This is a place of half-light, where ideas ignite in a murky soup that verges on alchemy. Here, received light is sculpted, shaped, and transformed into palpable emotion.
I’m mesmerised by it. The carving is a breathtakingly beautiful, organic embodiment of a whale.
My own work is an aggregate attempt at trying to untangle the conflicts that arise inside my head by finding hope in the pattern of buildings, places and humans around me.
As I walk through the streets of Lynn, it feels as though a switch in my brain has been turned on.