In complete stillness, the release of a shutter often sends a bird to flight. Here the landscape speaks in a language of origins: remnants of a crumbling stone wall conjures absence while creating a dramatic presence where the landscape beyond can be seen through holes in a hollowed trunk.
It is easy to spot the oldest trees; some have vacuous trunks as large as small caves. Many have lived two thousand years, displaying war wounds that ancient trees accumulate with time. The trunks acquire a unique pattern of twists, protuberances, and ripples, recording a sense of geological history.
The groves, accessible by stone paths or mule tracks, give a sense of the past. Expressive in form, the trees stretch out in wild and weirdly contorted shapes. Formally planted orderly rows lose structure over time, resulting in a pleasing disorder.
Time spent among these orchards was filled with quiet introspection. My thoughts turned to a self-reflective nostalgia; a projection correlating the lives of these trees with my own transient existence, where history is absorbed into the rhythm of nature furnishing the landscape with a narrative and a sense of the infinite.