11.10 - Assignment
Site Writing
A place abandoned, the smell of wet dirt, the musk of rotting wood hanging in the air.
Everything lays as if it was left yesterday. The wind screaming through every nook and cranny.
Nets, hook, wires, and the body of what was once a boat. A landsca pe divided by water and new land. What was once salt water, what was once a fishing village, what was once the South Sea.
Today, we look at the landscape, it is now a place for visits, a place for nostalgia of the past, a place to look at the skeletons of livelihood.
Two white sails can be seen gliding on the horizon, as tall as a building, but from where we stand it looks like an abstraction. A smaller boat in front of us trawls through the water, no fishing nets, no men dressed warm for a day out at sea. You cannot make out who drives it, where it's going. The water is stroked by the wind, separated by new land from where it comes from. It no longer flows to the ocean, following the cycles of the Atlantic. The seagulls still fly above. The sky is big, a large horizon also sculpted by man.
The last herring ever caught looks at us with its glassy eye for hundreds of years.
Everything lays as if it was left yesterday. The wind screaming through every nook and cranny.
Nets, hook, wires, and the body of what was once a boat. A landsca pe divided by water and new land. What was once salt water, what was once a fishing village, what was once the South Sea.
Today, we look at the landscape, it is now a place for visits, a place for nostalgia of the past, a place to look at the skeletons of livelihood.
Two white sails can be seen gliding on the horizon, as tall as a building, but from where we stand it looks like an abstraction. A smaller boat in front of us trawls through the water, no fishing nets, no men dressed warm for a day out at sea. You cannot make out who drives it, where it's going. The water is stroked by the wind, separated by new land from where it comes from. It no longer flows to the ocean, following the cycles of the Atlantic. The seagulls still fly above. The sky is big, a large horizon also sculpted by man.
The last herring ever caught looks at us with its glassy eye for hundreds of years.