In The Blue

I slowly began to fall in love with the blue of the sky. At first, it felt like a kind of affinity, but then it became something more serious. It became a habit to look out the window and wait for the blue hour: that moment of the day when everything seems to slow down, the one that marks its end—before everything turns to darkness. It fills me with peace and deeply inspires me. On the street and inside the house, lights turn on, and the last part of the day comes to life. Something begins again. In her book A Field Guide to Getting Lost, Rebecca Solnit, an American writer who has inspired me over the past few years, writes: “The world is blue at its edges and in its depths. This blue is the blue of distance. The light that does not touch us, does not travel the whole distance, the light that gets lost, gives us the beauty of the world, so much of which is in the color blue. The blue at the edge of the spectrum does not travel the whole distance from the sun to us. It disperses among the molecules of the air, it scatters in water. Water has no color; shallow water appears to take on the color of whatever lies beneath it, but deep water is full of this scattered light. The purer the water, the deeper the blue. The sky is blue for the same reason, but the blue at the horizon, the blue of land that seems to dissolve into sky, is a deeper, dreamier, melancholic blue; the blue of faraway places, of distance seen from miles and miles away.” Blue is melancholy, it’s elegance, it’s silence. It is absence. The kind of absence we need to truly connect with something—or someone. In the blue is the place where I want to be.

San Cataldo, Puglia, Italy

Taranto, Puglia, Italy

Berlin

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