I’ll make sense when I can, lover, and wander the shores when I can’t, for someone once told me that salt water heals all things. As the tide ebbs I’ll gather the bones and glass left behind, I’ll pluck glimmering pearls from hollowed carrion eyes, I’ll cast silent spells on the wet stones. I might even leave this city one day, with flowers in my hair, nose in the seawater, pupils gashed open against the oncoming dark, the opaque slope of a dream. But I’ve always been one to look back, even though they say it brings bad luck. And so I’ll always follow the scent back home.
Coastal marauder, sensitive renegade, dark blot against cerulean horizons; there are many ways I like to romanticize my penchant for wearing black on this veritable island oasis. I’ll wear it until they invent a darker colour, as someone clever once said. It’s the eternal paradox of sensuality and strength, passivity and assertiveness, a way to hide while chanting ominously on the breakwater—or something.
This was shot on an impromptu mission with the lovely and eternally witty Rachel Rilkoff, a good friend and talented photographer hailing from this paradisiacal locus of Victoria. She called me (me, still in bed), and I became her improvised subject, resorting to my usual morbid shades as we explored the shore.
Till next time,
– Style Raven