Winter, here on the Alps, seems like an endless season. During these first part of the year, there has not been so much snow, but a freezing wind. Tiny little ice crystal give me the illusion of candid landscape. It’s a less intense white, not uniform at all, but it’s my own make-believe wintery world, and it’s beautiful anyway.
The very few hours of sunshining, so precious during these months, offer such a peculiar, clear and crispy light. It’s my favorite light, in a certain way so pure and pristine, impossible to find during the other seasons.
It is sufficient to walk through one of the many paths to appreciate the rays playing with the leafless tress, the courageous grass enduring the cold, the frost brightly gleaming on stones. Nature is resting, quiet, but in her silence she goes on emanating her vigour. This is not Iceland, such a fashionable destination nowadays, land of contrasts and extremes, nor a far away wilderness; it’s just a mundane and maybe even trivial landscape, a short walk from home.
It’s small details revealing themselves to the eyes of a curious and attentive observer, because there’s nothing predictable and assumed, even less so on a glorious and freezing day in early January.
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