Moze Jacobs. Clonakilty, Ireland, June 2003.
To have space is a luxury. At least, that’s what it feels like when you move from Holland to Ireland (a fourth of the population, twice the surface area).
Mornings no longer contain a rush of adrenaline, traffic, and grim passers-by. Just the song thrush, some tractors, grazing horses.
The only gilittering nightlife, close at hand, is the Milky Way and other assorted. But because there are so few external stimuli, you're left with a lot of headroom.
Space... for inner projections.
| | Even in modern Ireland, the landscape is littered with old, empty houses. Spaces that seemingly belong to nobody... decaying quietly, organically... almost beautifully.
Maybe the former inhabitants still linger on, as ghosts, for eyes that can see (mine can't). Our next-door neighbours passed on a decade ago, but their plates are still set on the table. Nature is a bonus and also a curse because it's always trying to intrude on man-made structures. Maybe that's why so many Irish people surround their newly built bungalows with such impenetrable materials. Tarmacadam, concrete. Cropped grass kept in check by the dullest monsters on the planet: lawnmowers. |
