When the world opened up again, everything had changed.
I returned to the farm looking for inspiration and peacefulness. Amongst my belongings I found an old hunting flashlight I used when I was young. The night became a stage. I went on long walks across the fields and into the bushes and the plains, getting lost in the darkness. I was no longer the hunter but the prey, vulnerable and unprotected.
The night demanded something from me, a sacrifice. All I had to do was materialize my senses. I let myself go in the penumbras while I looked for houses, lacoons, vegetations, animal parts, roots and caves. Sites I might have been familiar with. But not anymore. Things appeared inadvertently, like memories from my unconscious.
The photographic act became a ritural, an exorcism, something that somehow made sense of the chaos.