all the images i wanted to show

from: the coast of italy

we’ve reached one month of silence and i am writing this imperfectly in the substack webpage. usually i write a draft in scrivener before i copy-paste it here, but this time, i want more truth. i had wanted to present the coast of italy as it showed itself to me; in sunlight, vivid colours, soft horizons. but the roll of film id shot during the trip turned out blank, and im left with no mementos. just the print of the images that never were, stillborn in their flat effigy; 24 frames of muted green.

i wanted to tell you about the rest of my travels. through salerno, amalfi, cetara, ravello; ancona and bari. how we spent the one week going from one coastal town to the next, planning our route as we went. i remember how freeing it felt, sitting on the bus, not knowing where we would sleep tomorrow. we always booked the bus tickets and hostel-stays on the same day, after we’ve made up our minds on where to head. i can say it felt freeing now but i am sure that if i had told the story back then my adjectives would have gravitated more towards the more negative side of the dictionary. but that is the danger of playing with time; of narratarizing so long after the fact. my mission with this newsletter was to always tell stories as they occurred to me, from the front-lines of the present, without any rosy embellishment the view from the past affords. but circumstance and procrastination made me put this particular story on the shelf, and returning to it now after so many months of stagnation – it would feel false to tell it like it occurred yesterday. because it inevitably didn’t.

during this month of silence i’ve wrestled incessantly with how to tell this story, thinking that when the images had been developed id know what to do. but the ruined roll punctured my plans, and i felt more stupified than ever. i kept thinking about those 24 blank frames, those 24 lost moments. what happens to the memories that dont make it into the photo album? the images we dont take? i felt dejected about this loss of materiality, thinking about the girl who dragged her heavy camera all over the coast of italy, picturing her each time she has that urge – that photographic impulse – of wanting to capture the present moment unfolding.

and then the question arrived: if a picture is worth a thousand words, can a thousand words equal the worth of a picture?

i did not want to loose these moments. those precious memories turned blank.

i had to honour them in some way.

and the only way i know how, is (of course),

in words.

therefore, i invite you to bear with me. as i present this non-picture gallery of scenes from the coast. small morsels of travel, some amuse-bouches of letterized scenery; impressionistic vignettes of the events that came to pass.

1. on the bus from napoli there is dios head against the window. his long blonde curls catching the light of the declining sun outside, a halo of gold like a medieval crown. i am tired and am listening to italian folk songs. outside the window the green continues to flit past. the next destination still hours away.

2. arriving in salerno. a fading sun going down the high mountains, the light protruding like spears behind those jagged dark edges. we have just pulled out our heavy backpacks from the bus and are preparing for the walk to the hostel through the dusk-filled streets, but i stop to catch the light – as always. the click of the camera.

3. a still-life of travel. ticketstubs, panini-wrappers, juice cartons and notebooks on the unmade sheets of the bed. i smile to myself as i take the picture, the contents of my backpack turned upside down. beside me dio asks: why take a picture of that? i turn to him, rewind the camera. you’ll appreciate it when youre forty, i tell him. confident that i’ll still know him in twenty years. confident that i’ll still be able to hold these images in my hand one day.

4. bad lightning in a dark alleway. our first dinner in salerno. after walking the narrow cobble-stone streets of the city in search for a vacant table we stumbled upon this place: a backstreet turned restaurant, red and white chequered tables lined along the wall. the waiters have to take turns bringing the food out from the kitchen, the passageway barely wide enough for one. we eat seafood with red wine and savour the fried freshly-caught fish. after the meal we are brought a small bottle of homemade meloncello. we get drunk on sugary orange.

5. a paradisical view from the bus-window. early morning light over the topaz ocean. the impression captures only the picturesque outside because there is nothing relating to serenity on the inside of this transfer bus, driving on the narrow cliff-side mountain-roads is an artform in itself; honking before every turn, scratching fenders and cursing at tourists. from this overcrowded vehicle i am silently praying. the bus lurches right at another turn and i crash into dios chest. i see his set brows gazing out over the post-card horizon. i think we are both praying.

6. the mosaics of cetara. yellow, light-blue and orange. on every turn and crossing the walls and the railings and every surface imaginable are adorned with colorful hand-painted porslin. like the streets of eldorado in goethe’s candide where rubies and emeralds litter the grounds like common pebbles, the citizens of cetara have in turn treated the precious mosaic like that of ordinary street decoration. maybe abundance is what turns the precious into the mundane, quantity what turns rubies into pebbles.

7. a bowl of spaghetti in parsley rich broth. spaghetti alla colatura. a little backstory: about a year ago i had walked into an italian supermarket in stockholm in search for colatura di alici – anchovy oil – and ended up talking to the man behind the cheese-counter who grew up in the small fishing village where they made this seafood elixir. if you end up doing an exchange in italy you have to visit my town, he told me. i promised but thought no more of it. the dream of a distant future. a year later and im sitting there eating the al dente spaghetti, taking up the camera and capturing the big milestone. thoughts about time occupy my mind. the taste of ocean.

8. a stormy grey adriatic. rugged cliffs and bare feet on seaweed. moments before diving in and several more before the salt crystallizes on my skin. floating on the surface, eyes closed, relishing. a body in the blue. i hear the snap of the shutter from the shore.

9. lemon-lined streets in amalfi. fake ones painted onto plates, cups, and bowls. in one of the shops we are offered a shot of limoncello. the cold acidic liquid goes gratefully down our throats. we buy two bottles. he holds his up like a trophy.

10. the backlight of a church window. pastel roses. dim light on rows of mahogany benches. i have always liked the smell of prayer candles, the meditative space that can be entered by just a push of a carved wooden door. silencing the chaos of the outside. i am quick about it and then put away my camera.

11. another bus-window, this one dusk-green. rolling hills of olive trees and pines. the bus snaking its way up the high mountains. we’ve decided an hour in ravello, a garden on the edge of the horizon. his eyes are fixed on the approaching dusk.

12. a sea undistinguishable from a sky. a nonexistent horizon before us. standing on a terrace on the edge of the mountain, just in time for the sunset: the world temporarily painted in ephemeral shades of pastels. from the depths of my memory echoes the voice of my old professor: to be touched by a work of art is the act of it reaching into your soul. of making contact, affecting – an impression on the skin. to be moved on the other hand is to be set in motion; to experience at the very core of your being the power of a transformative change. i kept thinking: moved our touched? in the end i decided on moved. i was moved by those mountains. by the immaculate, tragic, transient beauty of it all. 

13. the blue overhead light from the night bus. his frame slightly blurry. face partially hidden by a mask. we’ve been standing for the past hour in yet another overcrowded bus, but i can tell from his eyes that he’s smiling. despite every inconvenience, there is this safe patience.

14. the bus to bari takes six hours. this one is a selfie from the bathroom, where i have just brushed my teeth – despite no running water. eyes tired, hair unbrushed. smiling in a stinking flixbus-bathroom.

15. a well deserved swim. his pale bare back in the dark water. hard wet pebbles under my feet and i am on the phone with dad, talking about the highs and lows of backpacking life. savour it while you can, he tells me. i breathe in hard and snap the photo.

16. two chipped ikea-plates on a plastic table, scattered pits of olives. a quarto vino rosso to share. we asked for the place where all the locals go and he ordered his orecchiette with rapa, i with carbonara. the smell of garlic and pancetta mixing in the air. the pasta named little ears, from their small round and coned form. i hardly need to state that it is the best pasta we ever had.

17. wandering the white streets of historical bari. the twisting turns of the centro storico down to the old docks. the people here treat the seaside sidewalk like their own personal living room: takeout calzone, lawn chairs, speakers and coolers of birra moretti. from a sketchy roadside chiquetto we each buy a drink, he a lemon peroni and i a limencello spritz. i frame them with the sea as backdrop, condensation like a tear down the glass and the plastic.

18. a funny image on the door of a bookshop. i cant remember what is says but that is how i noticed the scene: an italian nighhawks over the glow of the midnight-open store. on one side there are the rows of books and on the other the clean polished surface of the bar, the space between them littered with plush sofas and armchairs, occupied by people immersed in their novels. on the tables in front of them half-full or empty glasses of wine are placed. i pick up my camera and take the shot just as a man in the back takes a sip. i exit the scene with a bottle of wine in my hand; the tarot of the hanged man printed on the label.

19. the last walk to the lasts bus stop. a ride to ancona. his golden curls above the big rucksack. we have to hurry now, his strides outpacing mine. despite the lack of time i stop to take his picture. forever wanting to immortalize. his back diminishing before me.

21. a dimly lit piazza. string-lights and flickering candles. when we walked by here during the day it was only an empty square in front of a church, now there are tables and chairs strewn everywhere, every seat occupied. the murmur of conversation and faint scraping of cutlery on porslin. from somewhere jazz is playing. i want to linger. i want to say we dined there, in that glowing warmth. in this version i say we did.

22. an after dinner walk down to the sea. the last night of our travels. the local football team has a game and the electricity is in the air. neither of us are interested so we walk down to the old port, the stars bright above us, no one around. at the end of the street the ancient arch rises before us; a remnant from the roman past. i walk up to touch the old stones, overcome by the urge to align myself with something so old, the time-withered marble cold to my touch. i think thoughts about time passing; the discrepancy of transient grandiosity. stendhal and his syndrom comes to mind and i feel myself falling deeper into this mental vertigo. then a hand in mine, pulling me back. we turn our backs on history and walk back to the hotel room. under the light of temporary stars.

23. the last breakfast in ancona. an outdoor table. two cappucinos, a panini for him and a chocolate croissant for me. eaten close after dawn, when the light is still as cold and direct as it is in the early morning. i think the puff-pastry and milk-foam fits well with the golden aura. he takes a sip and looks over at me. i cant decipher if it is regret or nostaliga.

24. the scene from a train window. now heading to the final destination: venice. the ocean to our right and the inland to our left. i gaze through my viewfinder and aim it to the right, waiting to catch the perfect image. seconds roll past, he yawns and rests his head against the window. the sun brakes through and i press the shutter; once again immortalizing that golden-curled halo.

in not a thousand but 2223 i hope i have made the images justice.

if not, i thank you for bearing with me. in this experiment, this photograph of words.

heres to lost images, memories, and old friends.

public transport and flix-bus bathrooms.

see you in the next one.

(i promise it wont be in a month),

love,

e.