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I am not Iban by heritage, but the longhouse has long been woven into the fabric of my childhood. I never lived in one, yet I grew up with its presence—playing in its corridors, watching life unfold beneath its towering stilts, and soaking in its warmth and rhythm during visits to nearby Dayak communities. For me, the longhouse was more than a structure; it was a living memory—a backdrop to laughter, discovery, and cultural richness.
Now, decades later, I return as a visitor—not just to a place, but to a feeling that never truly left me.
“The Iban Longhouse Soul” is a merged image, carefully crafted in Lightroom using two separate exposures. One captures me in stillness—contemplative, present—while the other is a motion-blurred echo of myself, walking through the very same space. This layering of images reflects the layers of time within me: the adult revisiting a place that once held the child, the present walking through the corridors of memory.
The blurred figure represents the soul in motion—a longing spirit caught between past and present, drawn to the familiarity of woven mats, vibrant buntings, and the hanging ornaments that still breathe tradition into the wooden beams of the Iban longhouse.
Though these longhouses are becoming part of history, fading into stories and photographs, they remain alive in the memories of those who once walked their length—even if only as children.
This photo is not just documentation; it is remembrance. It is my quiet tribute to the soul of the longhouse, and the soul it left in me.
a figure moves through the frame. above and below, the same world. a reflection so perfect it could be real. maybe it is.
architecture, silence, and a single step.
Shot on a short sunset trip on a rather windy (and quite cold) night at Toftum north of Struer, Denmark - March 07, 2021.
30x30cm lith print on old Ilford paper. Executed in May 2021. Photo taken with Hasselblad 500 c/m + 150mm Sonnar in 2013]
My weekly AI post. This time generated with chatGPT. if you’re interested how to do and want to know more, let me know in the comments! hen light cuts the world into shapes and shadows, all that remains is a man in motion — a silhouette framed by fate, disappearing into stillness.
Rising sun seen from our garden on the morning of our golden anniversary. Vejrumstad, Denmark - October 31, 2020.
the tree has no opinion about time. it grows in both directions through both moments - roots down into what we call future, branches up into what we call past, or perhaps the reverse. we are the ones who need sequence, who need to know which way time flows. but the water holds no such certainty. it reflects without interpretation, showing that warm and cool, ending and beginning, memory and anticipation exist in the same instant. perhaps this is what stillness teaches: that time is not a line we travel but a point we occupy, that every moment contains all moments, that the only direction is now. the tree already knows this. it has always known.
From a week's family vacation in a rented house in Skagen, Denmark - April 04, 2021.
The photo is taken at Grenen - The Northern Tip of Denmark.
i stood below as three dark figures crossed the sky like notes on a staff, drawn by a hand i couldn’t see.
the city fell away. the world reduced itself to line, contrast, and a quiet sense of motion.
in that moment, it felt like the weight of the day — the push, the pull, the climb — had been distilled into a single curve of steel.
nothing left but forward.
a city doesn’t speak in sentences. it speaks in echoes, reflections, crossing lines. one image shows people walking past themselves — not metaphorically, but literally. another captures motion and pause in one stroke: a rider, a stripe, a blur. these aren’t grand moments. they’re structure and breath. geometry with pulse.
Faces aligned like whispers across time, each profile carrying forward a trace of the last — a silent dialogue between generations.
Olympus OM-D E-M5 Mk.II
M.Zuiko 45mm/f1.8
in the hush of a rainy afternoon, two umbrellas form a quiet cathedral. beneath one, a man gazes sideways—his white hair tracing the years, his silence louder than the crowd beyond. in this brief frame, time bends inward, and all that matters is the shelter we find in each other, spoken or not.
in the cool shadows of plaza de españa, she sat on the edge of movement.
a figure wrapped in stillness, framed by tiled rhythm and filtered light.
time passed slowly around her, like dust settling on carved railings.
i circled quietly, letting her silence unfold into two perspectives—
above and beside, architecture and emotion, waiting and wondering.
The morning had barely begun when the sky decided to put on a show.
Dramatic clouds rose above the still waters of Lake Krickenbeck, and for a moment, the world stood still. The silence was broken only by birdsong and the distant ripple of reeds in the wind.
This is one of those scenes where light, form, and feeling align. A quiet moment from a recent photohike in western Germany – captured with care and a sense of presence.
️ If you’re curious about the full story behind this image – and the route that led to it – I’ve shared the background in this blog post:
he walks through a tunnel of voices, where shadows shape the silence and paint holds memory. his presence is neither past nor present â only a flicker in the cityâs kaleidoscope.
From a Saturday afternoon walk at the beach at Klegod south of Søndervig, Denmark - October 24, 2020.
She stood where the sea kissed the fading light, a quiet silhouette against the golden sky. The waves whispered stories around her feet, soft and endless, like time gently folding into itself.
There was a stillness in her presence — not empty, but full. Full of wonder, of quiet strength, of the kind of beauty that doesn't need to be spoken. Nature adored her, framing her in its finest hues, holding her in the last embrace of day.
And in that moment, she wasn’t just watching the sunset — she was the promise that tomorrow would rise just as beautifully.
by the storm
[Kodak Brownie Cresta modified with flipped lens / Superpan 200 / Adonal stand dev. / February 2019]
acrilic on canvas, 40x50 cm
www.instagram.com/p/DU_ukXMDcLU/?img_index=1
Un'immagine di pioggia rossa può essere un'immagine surreale che evoca sensazioni visive, creando un'atmosfera che va oltre il realismo, spingendo lo spettatore a interrogarsi sul significato nascosto di ciò che sta vedendo.
"Il rosso della pioggia" non è una metafora comune, ma si può interpretare come una metafora della pressione sociale per il contrasto tra la negatività del "rosso" (sangue, violenza) e la normalità della "pioggia" (un evento naturale). La pioggia può essere un'occasione per riflettere, per prendersi una pausa dalle aspettative sociali, e il suo colore rosso, metaforicamente, può rappresentare una pressione o una violenza che non si può ignorare.
La figura con l'ombrello può essere una metafora visiva per la protezione e il riparo dalle avversità (sia fisiche, come la pioggia, sia metaforiche, come le difficoltà della vita). Può anche simboleggiare il modo in cui ci si protegge dalla pressione sociale che incombe sulla collettività.
In un contesto culturale, può anche rappresentare la libertà di pensiero e la capacità di formarsi una propria opinione, indipendentemente dalle pressioni esterne
Beneath the weight of stone and time, the water does not pause. It does not rush, either. It listens to the rhythm of the world and moves in its own steady language. Carving, shaping, transforming.
Persistence doesn’t always roar; sometimes it whispers, again and again, until mountains give way.
acrylic on canvas, 50x40 cm
www.instagram.com/p/DOEpSDSjbNs/?img_index=1
"Sipario intravisto" ( acrilico su tela, 50x40 cm). Sipario, che indica la tenda pesante che separa il palcoscenico dalla platea in un teatro, ma può anche indicare, in senso figurato, l'inizio di un evento ("si alzi il sipario"). Il colore rosso è tradizionalmente usato per i sipari dei teatri, forse per evocare il sangue o le passioni del mito e del rito (come nel caso di Dionisio). Sipari fiammeggianti:
In senso figurato, potrebbe indicare un evento particolarmente drammatico o un'esibizione passionale.
"Sipario intravisto" descrive il drappo scorrevole di un teatro, o sipario, che è stato solo parzialmente visto, non completamente aperto o chiuso, suggerendo una vista incompleta o fugace del palcoscenico o di ciò che si nasconde dietro di esso. Il sipario è il drappo scorrevole che chiude l'arco scenico, separando il palcoscenico dalla platea. L'aggettivo "intravisto" significa che qualcosa è stato visto solo in parte, non nella sua interezza.
Quindi, "sipario intravisto" indica che si è vista una porzione di questa tenda teatrale, magari un scorcio del palcoscenico o una parte della decorazione, prima che il sipario si apra completamente, si chiuda del tutto o si muova.
Winter blue sky and cloud pattern seen through my kitchen window - Vejrumstad, Denmark - February 01, 2021.
From the Rocks of San Cristobal/Peñones de San Cristóbal in Almunécar, Andalusia/Spain - September 26, 2019.
I feel myself dying in you, overtaken by expanding
spaces, which feed on me just like hungry butterflies.
I close my eyes and I’m laid out in your memory, barely alive,
with my mouth wide open and the river of oblivion rising.
And you, patiently, with needle-nosed pliers, pul out
my teeth, my eyelashes, you strip
the clover from my voice, the shade from my desire,
you open up windows of space in my name
and blue holes in my chest
through which the summers rush out in mourning.
Transparent, sharpened, interwoven with air
I float in a drowse, and still
I say your name and wake you, anguished.
But you force yourself to forget me,
and I’m barely a bubble
reflecting you, which you’ll burst
with the blink of an eye.
poem by Julio Cortazar
art by Alice Alicja Cieliczka