self-portrait in fog, (fail)

in the morning at breakfast there was a deep and gloomy fog, frustratingly hiding the view of the sea below, so deep it was even hiding the lawn in front of the bank of windows of the hotel restaurant, they were uniformly filled with the soft, gray light, and in this long period room  it felt like being on board a graf zeppelin.  having giving up on seeing the longed-for view until lunch-time i thought it was instead an opportunity to set off down one of the pathways and find a lonely place on the desolate cliffs, and place my camera behind me, both close and farther back, and take some pictures stooed back to camera in this black nightie, being enveloped by the swirling cold vapour.  and then i heard someone say 'it's lifting' and like a dripping blanket being thrown up and off a bed the sea threw the clouds back up onto the land, in streaming tatters, remorselessly far back upon the hills.




Casper David Friedrich: Wanderer Above The Sea of Fog, (1818)


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