Tekst Mare

Entering the dense Jungle of Iriomote, I am drawn into another world. A world not mine,
where I’m neither seen nor heard. The mangrove forest carries something deep in its inner
nature, hidden far underneath the superficial struggle of the roots and branches.
Touching the textiles, I feel the texture and surface of the forest. The weave feels rough as
bark and soft as moist earth. Yarns are made of the trees growing in the island jungle. Mud pools twinkle and rays of sunshine wriggle through the foliage, throwing fragments of glittering silver on deep blacks. Bumps and holes, painted in dark hues where the water runs, glistening shapes, the sensual ways in which roots find each other, in a playful dance.

‘I’m taking part via the lens of my camera, once again’.

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