Blue White Black
There always had been something magic about the island. Maybe it was the closeness of the elements that made the difference, she pondered. The presence of those fire mountains that were only sleeping, that would wake again one day.
Isla de fuerta, the island once was named. She had been there years ago, in the time before digital cameras, in the time of just taking a few photos with a pocket camera. Still the intensity of its colours remained in her memory. The white houses. The black beaches. The red hills. The green plants that were growing on lava earth. The blue water. The sand that was sometimes carried by the wind, all the way from the Sahara, white like snowflakes.
Now she was there again, together with him,
together with a small yellow book of memories.
In the morning, she woke, looked out of the window and got up. She hadn't expected it, the readyness to walk to the beach; the significance of picking up a black stone and a white shell. This need to linger there, close to the tropic of cancer, to watch the sun shining through a cloud, lighting the surface of the water, like a beacon that calls the doves. They sailed through the air, straight towards the light. Ikarus, she whispered, and followed them with her thoughts.
words: Dorothee Lang, Germany (oil on copper)
photo: Helen Ellis, Australia