Disquiet

A walker in silhouette, the landscape, the road he walks on sufficiently abstracted that for a time the eye assembles foot to heel as heel to foot - implacably advancing, retreating, a relentless vacillation coalescing back into purposeful stride towards, away.

There is a sussurus like sleeping insects, sand runneled by water or wind, tree trunks, a dune - on a hillside there is the shape of a building, a bell, an implication of texture. The black and white is suppurating, sliding, beading and pearling like sweat on the brow of a textbook. That building on an incline has an answering structure - where is this? Where is this? Who is this? Who is this?

Posterised and confused, faceless is the walker; this is anywhere that is nowhere, no, nowhere that is anywhere. It is outside, and there is the suggestion of inside, but it's not the comfort of four walls, a door, a roof, the interiority of hair and skin and skull. What, who, where, when are we watching? Are we watching ourselves?

SJ Ramir does everything, found the anemone, these dunes, these hills, those sentinel structures - perhaps he is the walker, perhaps we are all the walker - it is quite stunning to look at, this disquiet, evocatively apt.