I am standing in a grove of ancient olive trees, the sunlight is harsh, unrelenting. The air smells of salt. The earth below me has been worked for centuries, turned in and over, planted and harvested. I am not unaware of the millions of footsteps that have walked these paths before me. Yet, I am there, with my camera. The air has never been exactly as it is now, the light has never shone on the trees exactly as it does now, the combination of salt, water, olive branch, and breath has never been the same. A photograph is made, a token. In that moment, the weight of age and the lightness of the instance meld.
