Wanted to tell you the story. The one that has, as yet, no title. Not just the barebones of it. Lots of detail. Open for discussion. How from simple suggestions it unfolded. Began to reassemble. Of course it didn’t. But it sometimes feels that way.
Two walls composed of mirrors. Old, mottled. A chair sits in the middle of the room on which a woman in a corset sits. Her face hidden behind a Venetian mask. The reflection of the two back walls can be seen. There is a door in one. Discrete. But apparent in that there is an oblong gap. The dreamer cannot see himself within the room. Although from his point of view he should be reflected. The woman with long flowing shock of red hair looks familiar. She is from the story. She is playing the part of Ophelia or Penelope. Or she is playing the part of a bereaved woman. A tale of a fisherman and the woman’s profound love. He was the one.
Someone filming. In the water. In green Wellington boots. Plastic rain boots. That’s what his friend calls them. Her’s are slightly more cosmetic. He wonders if she has a practical pair.
Tide coming in. He pans the camera from the island’s edge to the mainland and finishing the shot on three abandoned ruined trawlers on the island. Skeletal forms. He switches from video to stills. Shoots in colour and some black and white. Do as many as you can. Attempts to remember the email directive.
Late afternoon. Sunshine, cloud patches but beautiful. Some tourists stop. Ask him to take some photographs of them the backdrop of fishing relics. They assume that he lives on the island; asking about the boats, the weather, are there any other beauty spots. He smiles, I’m not sure.