Dyed Colour

Morocco

It’s not often that I’ve had the privilege to travel with a fellow photographer that I also love and admire. It’s even rarer to split that journey and do each half with a different one. In Murrakush and Essouira with my father, I realised fully for the first time that he was a dear friend. From Casablanca to Fas and through the foothills of the Atlas mountains, my companion Lisa was as free and adventurous as I never quite dared to be.

Morocco

Every street was a composition in waiting, every encounter an artistic interaction. We sought out little adventures, exquisite moments, hidden corners, experiences I would have likely missed or overlooked on my own.

The souks, the mosques, the carnival chaos of Djama Al-Fna, finding secret riads, early morning swims, marvelling at islamic symmetry, the old Jewish cemeteries, the blue of the Baḥr al-Rūm, the long sun shadows in Saint Laurent’s gardens.

The crumbling casbahs, rose-filled valleys, the technicolour weave of camel bags, palm trees edging along rivers in the desert, a fright and a fearful, headlong run through the midnight medina streets of Fez, the sun coming up over Tinerhir, feasts in tents, storks nesting on minarets, cigarette and wine fuelled talks late into the night.

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