A black-and-white photograph taken on Texel, just before a rising storm. The sea is high: the water licks the beach, which barely offers space between the surf and the first dunes. The horizon is barely visible - merged with a sky full of menace. The contrast is harsh: foam heads light up white against the dark grey water, while the sky hangs heavy and low.
A lone seagull flies diagonally through the image, caught in the wind. Its wings seem propped up by the opposing force of the storm approaching. No tourists, no human tracks. Just sand, water, air and that one animal.
The black-and-white rendering removes all distractions; what remains is raw and direct. The lines are sharp, the atmosphere tense. You can almost feel the sand rubbing your skin already, the first rain splashing down your neck.
This photo is not about Texel as an island, but about the unpredictable nature of coast and nature. About how quickly open space can close in, and how small everything becomes under a heavy cloud cover.
A still image, but loaded with movement - and expectation.
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I'm Karen, Photographer and artist...
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