This photograph was taken during an art residency in Crete, at Photoxenia. From the room where I was staying, I had a clear view of a distant island across the water. Every morning and every evening, I was drawn to it, silently observing. Over time, it became more than a fragment of the landscape—it transformed into a kind of mirror, reflecting my presence on Crete. The island, unreachable and still, began to embody an ideal, a projection of something internal. It was at once real and imagined.

I spent two weeks simply watching it. Waiting. Letting it speak. Eventually, I made this image—an attempt to render the island as floating between water and sky, suspended in a moment that feels outside of time. A mystical, elusive space.

In Zen, the mind is often likened to water or clouds—formless, shifting, impermanent. One is invited not to cling to thoughts, but to observe them pass, as one watches the surface of a lake or the slow drift of vapor. This image is a quiet attempt to hold that awareness.

Through the presence of the landscape, a thought begins to form—not imposed, but shaped by what is seen. The landscape doesn't illustrate an idea; it becomes the condition through which the idea emerges.