Narrative
Europe

Houses clinging to cliffs like little icing cakes. Snow drifts like sugar dusting warmed by the winter sun. Volcanos erupting into the sea night. Venus drifting shorewards with her lava locks waving in the wind. Masks in the mist hurrying to secret rendezvouses.

Houses clinging to cliffs like little icing cakes. Snow drifts like sugar dusting warmed by the winter sun. Volcanos erupting into the sea night. Venus drifting shorewards with her lava locks waving in the wind. Masks in the mist hurrying to secret rendezvouses.

Italy

Everybody has a place in the world that isn't home but they wish it was. What is it about Italy that allures? Is it because it is sinking into the sea under the weight of all its beauty? Is it that the people sing every time they speak? Or is it that it’s a pictured story book that has no human end?
I remember my first night in Florence like it was the first time I opened my eyes. On a bridge over the Arno I was struck silent by the contrast between the inky black water and the deep gold of the opulent buildings touching its sides. Black and gold. A visual metaphor for the glittering hearts of the merchants and bankers and fashion houses who’ve drunk the city’s waters ever since the Medici captured its soul.
Next journey...
 
 
ALSO IN...
PORTAL 001
portal-001
PORTAL 002
PORTAL 003
portal-003
Portal 004
PORTAL 005
portal-005
PORTAL 006
PORTAL 007
portal-007
PORTAL 008
PORTAL 009
portal-009
PORTAL 010
ANTHONY ELLIS