artur Bergart

The faint echo of John Coltrane from the speaker in the van, coursing through Indonesia, an old man with a lingering cigarette in a forsaken Georgian sanatorium, a scientist enamored with a bundle of photons, fifty meters beneath Switzerland's crust, the creases on the belly of an elderly man on a tiny island in the Indian Ocean, deer emerging in the twilight on a road between Norway and Finland, a child with Down syndrome's somersault, a ferret curled up into a sphere, a smoldering cigarette on a rooftop, planes fleeting by the window, a chestnut tree blossoming in the courtyard, creases on silk, turquoise waters, a homeless rapper, mother bathed in a ray of light — I love all of this and the billion other things that have occurred and are yet to happen to me.

I love noticing them, I love capturing them, and I love showing them.