någon har sagt, med lätt dimma i rösten tror jag;
one cannot collect all the beautiful shells on the beach.
men många timmar av mitt liv kan alldeles säkert få
förflyta precis så; i medvetet förgäves försök till just det.
för det meditativa i det, och för att jag, för att vi,
~ aldrig blir färdiga, aldrig klara,
och att just det är precis som det ska.
på bali’s sanur beach lever en evig sommar
och sanden är het så att man måste röra sig i små
dansande steg, också alldeles precis som det ska; med
rytmerna från restaurangerna längs stranden och
känslan av att alla vägar i livet är möjliga
som hotar att spränga bröstkorgen. någon har
placerat en lyckogranat mellan mina revben.
men den briserar aldrig, bara består, trots att den
hela tiden vidrör mitt hjärta, borde detonera.
österlen och nästa resa; nästa plåtning,
är ett ensligt landskap.
det är något alldeles visst och särdeles
vackert med övergivna stränder.
de sista soldyrkarna och sandslottsbyggarna har lämnat.
deras fotspår blåsts över av sand i nya formationer;
så perfekta bara naturen kan forma dem.
och Du vill knappt gå på sanden, gå ut över stranden,
~ eller är ens säker på att Du faktiskt är där,
när inga skratt eller skrik i skräckblandad förtjusning
bärs över vågorna, bara ljudet av hav i sig.
vi bär plagg på galgar; böljande klänningar
i vinden, följer den långa stig byggd av vindpinat trä
som drar streck, ritar karta över den milslånga stranden
där jag plockat snäckor & letat bärnsten
där jag plockat snäckor & letat bärnsten
så många gånger som barn.
där hav och äng ur blotta namnet dofta
som diktaren anders österling beskrivit just
haväng, i sina toner från havet.
cover på steve winwood’s higher love med
irländska singer-songwritern james vincent mc morrow;
lilla musan, belinda som trollar med hår, ~ & jag,
kamperar i ett lånat sommarhus, med skogen som
granne och avlutade gamla trägolv, kaminer & levande
ljus som värld, i vilan mellan tagningarna.
vi driver bort om kvällarna, lätt berusade av vin,
~ & fullkomligt fulla av de intryck
som redan väntar på att förevigas.
lilla skrutt och jag ligger och viskar paris i raggsockar,
trassliga lakan & sandhår tills vi somnar långt
in i de stjärnklara nätterna. när jag vaknar till, ligger hon
på min arm och susar sömn, fast att sängen är oändligt bred.
denna närhet och självklarhet och kärlek som överraskat.
denna alldeles speciella extra lillasyster.
vi fotograferar och fotograferar. och fotograferar.
och i mig väser den där granaten,
tänds om och om igen i beröring mot hjärtat,
men spränger inte, bara fyller mig ytterligare,
allt mitt blod som om ersatt med dopamin.
det är anne morrow lindbergh som sagt det där om att
one cannot collect all the beautiful shells on the beach,
kommer jag på. men hon fortsätter också
one can only collect a few,
and they are more beautiful if they are few.
detta arbete, detta liv som blivit;
alla dessa vackra ögonblick. jag hanterar dem varsamt,
samlar dem som skatter i mellanrummen mellan snäckorna.
tackar om och om igen, ~ ut i det inte så tomma intet.
med kärlek,
honeypie
±
n°1 & 2 | portraits plus paint | sanur beach bali
n°3 & 4 | österlen, sweden | model fira s/s ’14 : lina lindholm
n°5, 6 & 7 | beach house self-portraits | bracelets w. antique shells
from LW’s winter’13 accessories collection : coming soon
© hannah lemholt photography
music : james vincent mc morrows chilling cover
of steve winwood’s track higher love
music : james vincent mc morrows chilling cover
of steve winwood’s track higher love
someone said, with a light mist in their voice, i think;
one can not collect all the beautiful shells on the beach.
but many hours of my life can surely elapse just so;
in consciously vain attempts at just that.
for the meditative quality of it, and for that i, that we,
~ are never finished, never completed,
and just that is exactly as it should be.
on bali's sanur beach lives an eternal summer
and the sand is hot so you have to move in small
dancing steps, which is also just exactly as it should:
following the rhythms from the restaurants along the beach,
~ & the feeling that all roads in life are possible
that threatens, suddenly, to burst my chest.
someone has placed a blissfulness-granade between my ribs.
but it never explodes, only consists, although it
consistently keeps touching my heart, ought to detonate.
österlen and the next trip; the next shoot; is a solitary landscape.
there is a certain something, ~ & particularly beautiful about deserted beaches.
the last sun-worshipers and sand castle builders have left.
their footsteps blown over by the sand in new formations;
as perfect as only nature can mold them.
and you barely want to walk the sand, tread the beach,
~ or you are not sure you’re even actually there,
when laughter, or screams of delight mingled with terror are no longer
worn by the waves, just the sound of the ocean itself.
we carry the collection of garments on hangers; flowing dresses
in the wind, follow the long path built by windswept wood;
drawing lines, drawing a map across the mile-long beach, where
i picked shells and hunted amber so many times as a child.
where sea and meadow perfumes the very name
as the poet anders österling described this place of ’haväng’
[in swedish ’seameadow’], in his tunes from the sea.
the little muse, belinda; sorcerer of hair ~ & i,
camp out in a borrowed summer house, with vast woods as sole neighbor.
old, alkalized wooden floors, fireplaces and
candles burning makes up our world, in repose between the takes.
in the evenings we drift away, lightly intoxicated from wine,
~ & utterly besotted by all the impressions already waiting to be immortalized.
my little sweetie and i lie whispering paris in woolen socks,
tangled sheets & beach-hair until we fall asleep, far
into the starry nights. when i awaken, about to turn, she lies
on my arm, singing silent sleep, though the bed is infinitely wide.
i’m still. this closeness, its simplicity that has surprised me.
this very special extra little sister.
we shoot and shoot. and shoot.
and in me the grenade hisses,
sparks again and again touching the heart,
but doesn’t explode, only fill me up further.
all my blood as if replaced with dopamine.
it's anne morrow lindbergh who said the words
one can not collect all the beautiful shells on the beach,
i remember suddenly. but she also continues
one can only collect a few;
and they are more beautiful if they are few.
this work, this life that has become;
all those beautiful moments. i handle them gently,
collect them as treasures in the space between the shells.
i say thank you, again and again, ~ out into the not so thin air.
with love,
one can not collect all the beautiful shells on the beach.
but many hours of my life can surely elapse just so;
in consciously vain attempts at just that.
for the meditative quality of it, and for that i, that we,
~ are never finished, never completed,
and just that is exactly as it should be.
on bali's sanur beach lives an eternal summer
and the sand is hot so you have to move in small
dancing steps, which is also just exactly as it should:
following the rhythms from the restaurants along the beach,
~ & the feeling that all roads in life are possible
that threatens, suddenly, to burst my chest.
someone has placed a blissfulness-granade between my ribs.
but it never explodes, only consists, although it
consistently keeps touching my heart, ought to detonate.
österlen and the next trip; the next shoot; is a solitary landscape.
there is a certain something, ~ & particularly beautiful about deserted beaches.
the last sun-worshipers and sand castle builders have left.
their footsteps blown over by the sand in new formations;
as perfect as only nature can mold them.
and you barely want to walk the sand, tread the beach,
~ or you are not sure you’re even actually there,
when laughter, or screams of delight mingled with terror are no longer
worn by the waves, just the sound of the ocean itself.
we carry the collection of garments on hangers; flowing dresses
in the wind, follow the long path built by windswept wood;
drawing lines, drawing a map across the mile-long beach, where
i picked shells and hunted amber so many times as a child.
where sea and meadow perfumes the very name
as the poet anders österling described this place of ’haväng’
[in swedish ’seameadow’], in his tunes from the sea.
the little muse, belinda; sorcerer of hair ~ & i,
camp out in a borrowed summer house, with vast woods as sole neighbor.
old, alkalized wooden floors, fireplaces and
candles burning makes up our world, in repose between the takes.
in the evenings we drift away, lightly intoxicated from wine,
~ & utterly besotted by all the impressions already waiting to be immortalized.
my little sweetie and i lie whispering paris in woolen socks,
tangled sheets & beach-hair until we fall asleep, far
into the starry nights. when i awaken, about to turn, she lies
on my arm, singing silent sleep, though the bed is infinitely wide.
i’m still. this closeness, its simplicity that has surprised me.
this very special extra little sister.
we shoot and shoot. and shoot.
and in me the grenade hisses,
sparks again and again touching the heart,
but doesn’t explode, only fill me up further.
all my blood as if replaced with dopamine.
it's anne morrow lindbergh who said the words
one can not collect all the beautiful shells on the beach,
i remember suddenly. but she also continues
one can only collect a few;
and they are more beautiful if they are few.
this work, this life that has become;
all those beautiful moments. i handle them gently,
collect them as treasures in the space between the shells.
i say thank you, again and again, ~ out into the not so thin air.
with love,
honeypie
