August
August. The beach is a carnival. Voices ricochet, bodies collide, kids slice the air with knife-sharp screams. And still, you’re after something else. Not the noise. The gap between the noise.
A shot of someone sitting at the shoreline, back turned, staring at nothing. Silence.
An empty chair under an umbrella bent by the wind. Solitude.
A strip of sand nobody wants, littered with broken shells and a towel left behind. That’s your August.
You’re not chasing the party. You’re hunting the pause. The sea without bodies in it. The sky without applause. The tired face behind the postcard grin.
You don’t shoot to remember the vacation. You shoot to flush out the silence hiding inside the chaos. That’s the work: finding images no one else thinks are worth saving.
Andrea Bigiarini