If I could choose, I would rather go out with a bang. To live a life of regret over missed opportunities, of having tasted too little of the fountains of joy and adventure, of constant worry whether it is decent enough, considerate enough of me, how I live and behave; hardly desirable. Do I still have matters that are mine, or am I a matter for others?

The monster in the lake reminds me of mysteries, of a primal fear of the depths, it splits perception into what is beauty and what seems nasty. The best stories are probably the ones where I almost got killed, did something dangerous or forbidden, against conventions. What remains of oneself if not narratives of what was?

The wish that something of me would remain for the world after me, I find it reflected in what I wish to find of my deceased. A note in a book, unsent letters, even a diary...pieces of jewellery, stones.... If I found such a thing, what would it tell me? Aren't we more interested in the riddles posed by the finds made by our ancestors?

Your photographs make me want to pick up a brush and put mood like colours on a canvas.