Felicity Green

Once I realised I could take photos after dark with my new I phone, my familiar daylight reality opened up into a world of pure chiaroscuro.

Holloway - the hollow way. A sunken path, a deep & shady lane. A track worn down by the traffic of ages & the fretting water. The oldest date back to the Iron age and began as ways to markets, to the sea, or to sites of pilgrimage, lanes worn down by hundreds of generations.

I came upon these forgotten paths walking through the softer soils of Southern England. I soon realised one need not be a mystic to accept that certain old paths are linear only in a simple sense. Like trees, they have branches & like rivers they have tributaries. They are rifts in which time might exist as pure surface....the ancient song lines our ancestors walked.

Primordial, mysterious, luxurious and beautiful, but also feared and exploited, threatened and slowly disappearing.

I walk out my back gate into the remnants of a threatened woodland on the Southern Slopes of the Great Divide. Here time reveals herself amongst the twisted timbers and scattered granites. An unforgiving roll of hills down to the Murrumbidgee corridor. But also soft protected fells and dips holding wattles and seeps rising through the rock and clay. Gentle places, sacred spaces so implicit even a white woman may dream of other ways of knowing.

Roaming my suburban streets in the evening taking photos of the mighty trees.