MAR 26 2022
Langøyene is a place I visit with my vision often.
This time I head out by water from neighbouring isle Ormøya. 7am—the water is soft. It takes almost 20 minutes to kayak across, and I pull up at the closest shore, dock and begin to walk.
I immediately feel the divide—an island sewn together with sand, gravel, lime and gypsum. Protective material depositing itself as a barrier, a blanket for the ash and waste uninvited and left there before.
The belly of the island is combed; pressed with ridges that fold and depress.
I recognize my existance and really feel like this is the beginning of a new relationship.
I feel how much labour that is going-on here, and find myself at the beach towards the back of the island. I’m compelled to pick everything up (nets, little pieces of plastics, a cup, strings from a larger rope, a sock). The kitchen seive acts as my hands and I move in a form that is familar and comfortable. A form where it’s clear when it’s over.
I can’t do this alone.
It wasn’t quiet enough to feel a sense of solitude, but just enough to feel stranded—no ferry and high tides hold me there. You realize you are not supposed to be here and remember how powerful nature is, and how it can eat you whole, and how generous the rocks are to give themselves as protectors, and you are just one small piece in this all.
