Lumiére blanche

There's a certain magic in the light the sun casts when it's down in the sky. That light it gives off at four, five o'clock in the afternoon, a cold, white light. A light that seems to be calling the evening, and all its magic. It evokes the moon, the colour of that light, as if the sun was emulating its sister in the sky.

You'd think the sun was already paving the way for the shadows of the night, and getting the earth and its inhabitants ready for dusk, that most magical time, with its sombre fingers drapped in long, midnight blue velvety gloves, caressing the horizon, and the world. Making way for the night to embelish herself, as she puts on her diamonds after covering herself with a dress of the blackest satin, making herself pretty by the light of the last rays of the sun, who stands witness to her glory as the day begins to die out, who casts the last of the stage lights on a world preparing for grandeur and pomp, making everything one sees by that light even more beautiful, richer, creamier, softer.

I love photographing by this light. And nowhere in my home is it better than in my living room, on the dinning room side of it. It feels as if, as it enters the window, the light drips down in a white creaminess, a soft veil of tulle that covers the blushing bride's face, a tutu over a ballerina's long legs, the cloud of face powder gently applied with a deft brush stroke by a beautiful woman as she sits on her vanity...

It is the kind of light that almost makes me believe fair Galadriel must come out of her woods, in her bright white dress, her sparkling brow adorned in bright gems, her pale hands as she casts her benign blessings over the fellowship of the ring... it is the kind of light that has me believing that if I look through the windows at a certain angle, and in just the right way, I can see La Belle Dame sans Merci come to claim her knights, or the Lady of Shallot sitting at her loom, weaving her magic web of colours gay, or even the Lady of the Lake stretch her arm out of the icy cold waters as she lays claim to Arthur's sword. It is a light of magic, of fairy realms and fairy tales, a light of ancient knowledge, preparing us for what's even more ancient, more primeval, more magical: the light of the moon.


  1. estão poeticamente lindas estas tuas bem que o texto que as acompanha é igualmente encnatdaor!
    uma semana linda para ti, babe!


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