Living here means the wind becomes an almost constant companion. I’ve long loved the way the wind can be heard – in the wires on a country road, in the tallest pines of a forest. A sound repertoire from storm roar to the soft play of plane tree leaves in a London square.
The way it can be felt – a welcome breath on the face on a hot afternoon, a tug-of-war pull on an umbrella, an unwelcome draught through a window-frame.
The wind’s gift to a photographer is the way it only becomes visible – can be seen – in the objects it touches, the surfaces it disturbs. As it lifts a strand of hair or the page of an open book; picks up dust from a floor; balloons out a sail; catches the hems of lace curtains.
Three days of unusually strong August winds found me watching these dancing, veering grasses in a friend’s garden.
