We are now(here) · 2020

In march, by the beginning of lockdown I asked a good friend of mine to send me some of his poems.

I felt lonely and bored. I was looking for something but I didn't know what I was searching for. Reading his thoughts and having an artistic input seemed to be a good idea.

On a rainy afternoon I received his first poem with the title "Samuel". I liked his style of writing straight away and felt his presence by reading his words. He was alone too, stuck in his London flat, with his thoughts and dreams. His words touched me and I felt the urge of replying, of giving him something in return. I wanted to express my thoughts but my hands didn't manage to type something in response.

I was roaming through my house, fighting the dullness of the day. I studied the flickering leaves in the sunlight, watched their shadows dancing on the floor. My bedsheet, a white crinkled linen fabric, began to talk to me. It looked like a mountain covered in snow. I dreamed myself away to someplace good. I missed taking photos of these very places full of meaning and atmosphere.

I felt lonely and bored. I was looking for something but I didn't know what I was searching for. Reading his thoughts and having an artistic input seemed to be a good idea.

We neither talked or reflected about what was going on, nor did we stop doing it. What started to be a vague idea of something turned out to become a soul saving experience during these troubling months.

At some point we didn't feel alone anymore.