Rendered as Island
Der Geruch von Rauch liegt über der Insel, das Meer im Wind. Schwarz, grün, opal, weiß. Salz permanent auf Lippen und Haaren.
There is no fish shop on these islands. You know someone that knows someone.
Faroe, in perpetual hazy, wet, storm-swept suspension in void. A rock in space, all the beauty and all the rawness, and everything is as direct as possible. The malte thing, old and new, at once, rendered as island.