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PHOTOGRAPHS by Ryan Segedi | PROPS by Anush Mirbegian




Mystery never leaves you, and of you. Especially you. And then you yield - time transforms. You've never seen your own face, like I see. Your consciousness and me.

As the dusk fires, the way of being has to change - the shores must shift. Below the surface of the ocean, that stillness. Azure impenetrable haze. Islands apart, opening to the eternal. Where might the shore be? The vases fill with thought. I am watchful of it. I receive the time. It forms landscapes, it is me, alive in different terroir.

This place to commune, is the place that is free of wounds. Tranquil is its wakened state. Love lets us visit that place. The depth of approach is guided by that thing, it will be what honors that thing and coaxing it to honor that depth and yield more.

But the word love is useless, we have extracted its essence, the bones. Hold tight, with care. We cannot lose the spirit of it. Words too, enlivened. Afraid not of the ritual of limitation but of an infinite swoon. Language offers the capacity of renewal, soft words. I hear the ones that found me. Off the coast, the words change, a salty wind blows in the horizon, singing in your ears. But the language really wishes it could be music. You the listener of beauty, music in the presence of reality.

We are not less capable but more unpracticed. The vital hunger to be seen and received, understood in the tender space, not to be battered by the force of expectation and an ever pale sustenance. Now there is before and there is after, the threshold woven through secret work we are blind to, etching lines, sacred and invisible. Should we cross worthily and emerge to fullness and brim with vivid scent and silk pouring out its sea colors?

PHOTOGRAPHS by Ryan Segedi | PROPS + STYLING by Chloe Daley | WORDS by Anush Mirbegian



Ses Illetes lies below, for walking. These quiet hours that make one new, rewalking the steps that have been passed over, eased away by the sea. Beach flotsam, an ocean in a shell, the gold of the azure. One thousand years yours, one ear in France, one eye in Spain, space swimming in these eyes. Floating shade and ebbing light, making ornaments of accidents, a strange force inching it all together, the warmer current of water. 

Where mothers had been raised as sisters, these strange family connections, origins intertwined, before presence, the woman and solar birds. The subtext, a magnetic and unconscious way of tracking each other before finding one another. Taught early to share a decadent peasants lunch, pa amb oli, pressed golden from wild olives. This, is passed through the blood, the red of it brightening. 

Scales echoing, the room breathes like a fish, built to sway with change, the primary colors stay. More expressive as they grow older, brutal yellow and the blue, consumptive and tidal. An atelier, the gift of four inhaling walls to Palma, still to this day. This place, a canallún, where he burnt all the work away to begin to trust the simplicity of it. The simplicity of the pleasure of it, a half life of love. Felicidad tranquilidad, an eloquent silence, that lifted the temper of even the malagueño.

The view down from the hills of Son Abrines is composed of climate and knots of wind that proof the time of year, the character of land lays a thin film on you, of honey yellow, and on the sunned grasses. The seven o'clock sol is picking up the stray light as it starts to dip into the sea. A color flash, oiseau-éclair, the slightest moment for the birth of what is wild, hands flying off towards constellations, off towards the reflected sky. Expanded infinitely, because there is sea more than days.

PHOTOGRAPHS by Ryan Segedi | PROPS + STYLING by Chloe Daley | WORDS by Anush Mirbegian



There is the knowing that the sea is just behind the Serra de Tramuntana, which rises above the earthy evocation of this island, a land strewn with valley settled fincas. It is only when you reach around the mountain, careening over vertiginous coastal roads, tucking inside jagged calas, that the inky blue swirls like an ensaïmada. Fishing villages perch atop rocks and the climb back up for lunch is steep up quick. Post swim, vermilion gambas are set in front of you on the cloth of tongues, salted and fresh. The light and shadows shift, torn across hills and crests, marking centuries and September holidays, this light, older than wine. A windy cadence blows down streets that breeze to rustle a drape of sun faded lenguas mallorquinas.

PHOTOGRAPHS by Roberto Kozek | RETOUCHING by Kyle Iskra | ART DIRECTION + STYLING + WORDS by Anush Mirbegian