(2019)
This video examines the interplay of light and surface, as well as the inherent timelessness of specific kinds of spaces. The starting point was a personal longing for the sun to come back; the winter months in New England often feel endless - as though the sun has left and taken all the warmth with it.
As a result, I become somewhat nostalgic for the thought of the sun in the summertime and the interplay of light, time, and the natural world.
As a result, I become somewhat nostalgic for the thought of the sun in the summertime and the interplay of light, time, and the natural world.
This video examines the interplay of light and surface, as well as the inherent timelessness of specific kinds of spaces. The starting point was a personal longing for the sun to come back; the winter months in New England often feel endless -
as though the sun has left and taken all the warmth with it. As a result, I become somewhat nostalgic for the thought of the sun in the summertime and the interplay of light, time, and the natural world that comes with it.
as though the sun has left and taken all the warmth with it. As a result, I become somewhat nostalgic for the thought of the sun in the summertime and the interplay of light, time, and the natural world that comes with it.
-
There’s Nothing Like the Sun, Edward Thomas, 1915
There’s nothing like the sun as the year dies,
Kind as can be, this world being made so,
To stones and men and birds and beasts and flies,
To all things that it touches except snow,
Whether on mountainside or street of town.
The south wall warms me: November has begun,
Yet never shone the sun as fair as now
While the sweet last-left damsons from the bough
With spangles of the morning’s storm drop down
Because the starling shakes it, whistling what
Once swallows sang. But I have not forgot
That there is nothing, too, like March’s sun,
Like April’s, or July’s, or June’s, or May’s,
Or January’s, or February’s, great days:
August, September, October, and December
Have equal days, all different from November.
No day of any month but I have said—
Or, if I could live long enough, should say—
"There’s nothing like the sun that shines today."
There’s nothing like the sun till we are dead.
Kind as can be, this world being made so,
To stones and men and birds and beasts and flies,
To all things that it touches except snow,
Whether on mountainside or street of town.
The south wall warms me: November has begun,
Yet never shone the sun as fair as now
While the sweet last-left damsons from the bough
With spangles of the morning’s storm drop down
Because the starling shakes it, whistling what
Once swallows sang. But I have not forgot
That there is nothing, too, like March’s sun,
Like April’s, or July’s, or June’s, or May’s,
Or January’s, or February’s, great days:
August, September, October, and December
Have equal days, all different from November.
No day of any month but I have said—
Or, if I could live long enough, should say—
"There’s nothing like the sun that shines today."
There’s nothing like the sun till we are dead.