Morning Bar and Code Black Coffee Signs in Melbourne for Sign2

 

The early morning air in the Melbourne CBD carries a crisp, familiar chill, but as you hurry down the cobblestone shadows of Flinders Lane, a sudden glow pierces the dim twilight. Striking out against the heavy darkness of the sleeping city, the luminous text of Morning Bar and Code Black Coffee emerges like a neon beacon from the deep storefront shadows.

It is a striking juxtaposition—a dark, moody sanctuary carved into the urban landscape, yet completely alive with the promise of warmth and caffeine. As you pass quickly by, the glowing signs cast long reflections across the pavement, offering a quiet invitation to pause. Inside, the sleek, minimalist coffee bar stands ready to serve Melbourne's dedicated coffee purists, readying its rich, dark roasts to awaken the city one cup at a time.

Sony A7RV

FE 16mm f1.8 

Linking Sign2

Nyah Victoria in Australia for Treasure Tuesday

 

In March 2026, I was once again told that I could no longer provide bulk-billed geriatric services to nursing homes in the remote parts of Victoria. Another change of hospital management had arrived, bringing with it the familiar ritual of replacing existing arrangements with something new. In the world of corporate administration, it seems, little is sacred except the perpetual need for change. This was the fifth time in twelve years that I had found myself at the receiving end of such a decision.

This time, however, I could no longer be bothered to play the corporate game. I had learnt enough from twelve years of service to know how little one's efforts might count when a new set of managers arrived with their own ideas, their own priorities, and their own people. I simply gave them the answers they seemed to want and left it at that.

Over those years, I had gone to considerable lengths to keep the service alive. Every referral from a general practitioner had to be worded appropriately and satisfy the necessary requirements. I paid for motel accommodation when an overnight stay was needed, drove for hours across the region, and often spent six hours on the road for a round trip to visit nursing homes with fewer than twenty residents. The roads were another story altogether, riddled with potholes that seemed to offer a fitting metaphor for the state of rural healthcare itself.

At the facilities, there was often no continuity of staff and little reliable clinical information to guide my assessments. The people who cared for these residents changed with bewildering regularity, and the knowledge that should have accumulated over months and years was repeatedly lost. Families, meanwhile, were often described as supportive, though some residents received little more than an occasional visit, perhaps once a year. Between the administrative machinery, the revolving door of care staff, and the distance separating these elderly people from their families, the responsibility for understanding their medical and functional decline sometimes fell upon remarkably few shoulders.

And here lies the irony. Some of these residents have survived years of imperfect care, changing personnel and fragmented clinical oversight. I have come to know them through repeated assessments, through the slow accumulation of small observations, and through the familiarity that only time can provide. In some instances, I suspect I know more about their circumstances than the people who see them every day, including their general practitioners and care managers.

Yet, after twelve years, I find myself being shown the door once again.

There is something quietly absurd about this arrangement. A service that has persisted through years of practical difficulties, long journeys, endless paperwork and considerable personal expense can apparently be discarded with a change of management. The institutional memory disappears overnight, while the residents remain exactly where they have always been, frail and dependent, waiting for someone to take the trouble to understand them.

I have little doubt that, within the next six months, somebody whose name I have never heard will eventually approach me to ask whether I might return to provide consultations. Perhaps another change of management will have taken place. Perhaps the shortcomings of the new arrangements will have become apparent. Perhaps someone will suddenly remember that these residents need a geriatrician who knows their histories and understands the peculiar difficulties of caring for the elderly in remote communities.

But this time, I will decline.

For too long, I have allowed professional duty to carry me beyond the boundaries of what could reasonably be expected of one person. Much of what I have given to this region has amounted, in practical terms, to a form of pro bono service, sustained by a sense of responsibility rather than any meaningful recognition or institutional support. I do not regret the care I have provided, nor the time spent with those who needed it. My regret lies elsewhere: in the realisation that twelve years of commitment can be so easily forgotten by the very system that benefited from it.

Perhaps this is the peculiar fate of working in neglected corners of the country. The work is essential until it becomes inconvenient. The practitioner is indispensable until a new administrator decides otherwise. And the elderly residents, who have no influence over the machinery governing their lives, are left to bear the consequences of decisions made far away from their bedsides.

I shall leave the service behind without bitterness towards the residents themselves. They deserved better, and they always will. But there comes a time when one must recognise the difference between serving a community and allowing an institution to take one's efforts for granted. Twelve years is a long time to keep knocking on a door that opens only when somebody else finds it convenient.

The photographs accompanying these reflections were taken in the quiet country around Nyah, beside the broad reaches of the Murray River.

The first photograph offers a sweeping view of the river, a landscape I have always enjoyed seeing in this part of Victoria. The Murray moves through the country with a patient, unhurried presence, indifferent to the ambitions of administrators and the changing fortunes of institutions. Its waters have witnessed generations come and go, carrying their reflections downstream without ceremony. There is a reassuring permanence in such a landscape, a reminder that some things endure without requiring the approval of anyone in an office.

The second photograph captures an old, weathered Post letterbox, its surface marked by the beautiful colours of rust. I have always had a fondness for such humble objects. Their peeling paint, corroded metal and faded presence tell stories that newer things cannot. They have stood through seasons of rain and heat, quietly collecting the marks of time. To some, the rust might suggest neglect. To me, it possesses a certain dignity, the beauty of something that has endured without pretending to remain untouched.

Perhaps that is what draws me to these remote places. Beyond the noise of corporate decisions and the endless reshuffling of responsibility, there is still a landscape that asks nothing of me. The river flows, the old letterbox rusts, and the country carries on in its own way.

After twelve years of service, perhaps it is time for me to do the same: to turn away from the machinery of institutions and return to the quieter business of observing, photographing and finding meaning in the things that remain.

Linking Treasure Tuesday

Mural in Adelaide Laneway for Mural Monday

 

Yes, this trippy-looking lady is painted on a wall tucked away in one of Adelaide’s little laneways. Joel looked at her and declared that this was the sort of mural you would need LSD to truly appreciate.

According to him, once the drugs kicked in, the colours would become stranger, the shapes more bizarre, and the hallucinations would probably take the whole thing to another level.

I looked at the mural again.

“No thanks,” I told him. “I think I’ll stick to seeing it exactly as it is.”

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Mural Monday

La La Creek and waterfall for Sunday Best

 

La La Creek is one of those places that seems to reveal a new face every time I return. On the way up to the origin of La La Waterfall, the creek winds quietly through dense foliage, slipping around bends and over rocks, creating little cascades and hidden waterholes along the way.

The waterfall itself is surprisingly tiny—not nearly as impressive as the creek that leads to it. For me, it is the five bends along La La Creek that hold the real magic. Each has its own character: different shapes of rock, little falls, deep pools and ribbons of water threading their way through the forest. I have posted some photographs from here before, but over the years I have taken more than 300 images at this one location. Somehow, I never seem to tire of it.

Photographing these creeks is not easy. Beneath the dense canopy, light is scarce, and the white water can almost disappear into the shadows. I often turn to ultra-long exposures, letting the water gather itself into a single, luminous movement. The individual threads of the falls lose their definition, dissolving into a soft, milky-white veil. What the eye sees as countless little streams becomes, in the photograph, something almost ethereal—a flowing brushstroke of white moving through the darkness of the forest.

Perhaps that is what keeps bringing me back: not the waterfall itself, but the endless shapes and moods of the creek, quietly changing with the light, the seasons and the movement of water over stone.

And, of course, Joel is always beside me, every step of the way. His wife calls me his “man wife,” which, after all these years of wandering together through forests and chasing waterfalls, is probably not entirely inaccurate. 😂

Sony A7RV

FE 50mm f1.2 GM

Linking Sunday Best

St Kilda Pier sunset sky for Skywatch Friday

 

St Kilda has changed so much over the years that I sometimes feel as though I am visiting a place caught between memory and reality. I was glad, at least, to find the old pier still stretching into the water, a familiar landmark holding its ground against the passing of time. Beyond it, Melbourne’s skyline continues to grow wider and taller, its ever-expanding collection of buildings reshaping the horizon I have known for decades.

Time really does change everything. I have lived in Melbourne for more than 36 years now. When I stop to think about it, that is a substantial part of a lifetime. Yet, people still occasionally ask me when I jumped off the boat, as though I have only recently arrived on these shores. Perhaps it is my accent that gives me away, an unusual blend that belongs neither exclusively to Mandarin nor to any of the other Chinese dialects I speak. What makes it rather amusing is that I completed my medical training entirely here in Australia, working my way through the local system from beginning to end, much like any other locally trained doctor. Apparently, even three and a half decades are not always enough to convince people that you have been here for a while.

St Kilda, too, has lost some of the little things that once made it familiar. My favourite café, where I used to indulge in its excessively sweet ice cream and decidedly overpriced fish and chips, is no longer there. Perhaps the food was never quite as good as I remember it, but that was never really the point. Some places become part of our lives through the simple repetition of ordinary pleasures, until one day we realise that we have been collecting memories without knowing it.

The old pier remains, the skyline keeps rising, and the familiar streets continue to change their faces. I suppose Melbourne has been moving forward all these years, just as I have. Yet, standing in St Kilda today, I cannot help feeling that a little piece of the place I once knew has quietly slipped away.

Perhaps that is what time does best. It leaves enough behind for us to recognise, but takes just enough away to remind us that we can never truly return to the past.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Skywatch Friday

Flinders Blowhole Cape Schanck for Water H2O Thursday

 

The waves and layers of rock in this image seem to create their own sense of movement, almost as though the volcanic basalt at Flinders Blowhole, Cape Schanck, is flowing rather than standing still. The textures rise and fall like frozen waves, giving the rock an unexpected rhythm and a sense of motion.

Recently, I received some thoughtful feedback from an old acquaintance about my photography blogs. He suggested that perhaps I should start thinking in terms of smaller, more focused projects rather than always trying to photograph the landscape as a whole.

The idea has stayed with me.

Photography has always been something I can become slightly obsessed with—perhaps a particular kind of wave motion in the ocean, the way water threads itself through rocks, or the old fascination I once had with searching for abandoned sea caves and photographing their entrances from the inside looking out. These little obsessions seem to give my photography a purpose beyond simply finding another beautiful landscape.

Perhaps that is what I need now: small projects with very narrow themes, enough to stimulate the creative part of my brain again. After all, I have spent decades photographing Victoria's landscapes. I know many of these places almost too well. I have returned to the same coastlines, rocks, beaches and forests so many times that sometimes I wonder whether I am discovering anything new—or merely revisiting what I already know.

Maybe the answer is not to keep looking for bigger landscapes, but to look more closely.

A micro project can begin with something almost ridiculously specific: a particular form of wave movement, a certain texture in basalt, forgotten entrances to sea caves, weathered concrete, or the strange relationship between water and rock. The subject itself may be tiny, but the possibilities within it can be surprisingly deep.

And that is what appeals to me about this photograph. At first glance, it is simply a piece of volcanic rock at Cape Schanck. Yet I have never really seen another photograph from this particular location that explores the rocks in quite this way. It is not the iconic Flinders Blowhole that I am photographing, but a small, overlooked detail within a place I have visited many times.

Perhaps this is where my photography needs to go next.

Not necessarily farther, but deeper.

After decades of photographing the landscape, perhaps it is time to stop trying to photograph everything—and start becoming obsessed with something very small.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Water H2O Thursday

Gouger St Adelaide Bench mosaic sign for Sign2

 

A solitary mosaic bench rests against the pavement, a vibrant tapestry of fractured blues cradling tiles shaped like forgotten stamps. Across its heart, script loops in elegant ceramic cursive: Gouger St, Adelaide—a sudden, artistic compass pointing the way for a traveler lost in a fruitless hunt for the city's hidden murals.

Yet, the romance of the discovery quickly curdles. The bench is not granted room to breathe; instead, it is closely besieged by a grim garrison of overflowing rubbish bins. The brilliant, hand-placed glass and whimsical shapes find themselves drowned out by a thick, inescapable stench, turning a brilliant pocket of street art into a casualty of the city's discarded excess.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Sign2

Suupaa Korean Fusion Cafe in Richmond for Treasure Tuesday

 

Joel is becoming more of a gourmet than I am these days. This time, he wanted me to venture with him to Suupaa Café in Richmond, a place he had apparently decided was worthy of our culinary curiosity.

Getting there was an adventure in itself. Parking around Richmond was almost impossible, while the traffic seemed to conspire against us at every intersection. Somehow, though, we managed to find our way in, and once inside, the little café felt rather bougie—stylish, intimate, and just a little too polished for two photographers who were mostly there to see what all the fuss was about.

I ordered the bolognese udon, an unexpected marriage of Japanese noodles and Italian comfort food, generously buried beneath a mountain of Parmesan cheese. Joel, naturally, chose something different—a dipping-sauce ramen, because apparently he now has considerably more adventurous culinary instincts than I do.

The menu was Japanese at heart, but with an unmistakable Italian accent here and there. It was an unusual combination, but perhaps that was exactly what made the meal interesting. We weren't there for any grand gastronomic revelation. We were simply trying something new together.

And sometimes, that is enough.

Afterwards, we wandered next door to Baker Bleu, where a long queue had already formed for their much-talked-about tarts. Naturally, we joined the ritual and brought some home with us.

Perhaps the best part of the outing was never really the food. It was the simple pleasure of going somewhere neither of us had tried before, discovering a little corner of Richmond together, and allowing an ordinary afternoon to become another small memory shared between us.

You can see the website here Suupaa Cafe

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Treasure Tuesday

Dragon Mural in Adelaide CBD for mural Monday

 

Tucked away in the quiet geometry of an Adelaide laneway, the city's morning hum softens into the background, leaving only the steam rising from a breakfast cup and the sudden, fierce geometry of a hidden wall.

Here, a dragon breaks through the brickwork—not in a whisper, but in a deafening shout of crimson, scarlet, and blood-orange. It is a creature born entirely of fire and focus, coiled tightly around the architecture of the alley as if it grew from the stone itself. Its scales twist like cooling magma, vibrant and heavy against the dark recesses of the street.

The beast’s face looms large, defined by curved white horns and eyes wide with ancient, knowing mischief. A long, pink tongue lolls past jagged teeth, playfully tasting the cool morning air just above a modern fire door that it seems to guard. Yet, for all its coiled power, a delicate grace tempers its fury: pale pink cherry blossoms drift across the composition, softening the dragon's sharp claws and anchoring the fierce, red spectacle in a moment of fleeting, poetic balance.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Mural Monday

Rabbit Rock Sunset Montforts Beach for Skywatch Friday

 

Rabbit Rock would surely make an iconic Easter image — if only it weren’t September. Yet the season seems almost incidental beneath that dark, brooding sky, where the golden sunset burns through the clouds with a quiet, dramatic splendour. It is a scene both moody and magnificent, as though the day itself were reluctant to surrender to night.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Skywatch Friday and Skyview Blog

Balnarring Pylons in Cape Schanck for Water H2O Thursday

 

This was one of nearly 200 frames I made at Balnarring, each one an attempt to find a slightly different rhythm in the water. After spending so much time chasing that particular kind of silky, flowing motion, I wanted to show another interpretation—water curling and breaking around the weathered remains of the old pylon.

Eventually, I found the shutter speed I was looking for. The sea softened without losing its character, wrapping itself around the broken timber in long, restless threads. It was one of those small moments when the camera finally seems to see what I had imagined in my head.

Last weekend, though, the weather had other plans. Storms rolled through, and Joel and I decided to take a quiet break rather than head out. My teeth are still giving me grief, nearly three weeks after the extractions, which is becoming rather tedious. Sometimes the best photographic decision is simply to stay home, let the weather pass, and wait for both the sea and oneself to settle down.

Sony A7RV

FE 70-200mm f4 G

Linking Water H2O Thursday

Plain Jane in Adelaide for Sign2

 

Apparently, Plain Jane is quite a popular little restaurant tucked away on Leigh Street in Adelaide’s CBD, known for its tapas, drinks, live music and wood-oven pizzas. Plain Jane Its current description rather proudly promises “Tapas. Woodoven Pizza. Good Times,” which seems fitting for a lively little laneway venue.

But, in typical photographer fashion, I wasn't there for the food.

It was the pizza oven that caught my eye.

There was something about the warmth, texture and slightly theatrical presence of it sitting within that laneway environment that made me stop and look. The restaurant itself has that sort of Adelaide CBD character I have been enjoying lately—tucked into Leigh Street, surrounded by old buildings, narrow spaces, signs, people and all those little fragments of urban life that become much more interesting when you slow down and actually look. Plain Jane occupies a two-storey building in the middle of the laneway, and it has been part of Leigh Street's dining and nightlife scene for several years.

I didn't dine there. I simply wandered past, saw something that caught my photographic eye, and stopped.

Perhaps that is becoming my favourite way of exploring a city.

I rarely go looking for the obvious postcard anymore. Sometimes it is a weathered wall, an eccentric sign, a strange mural, an empty shopfront—or, apparently, a pizza oven—that makes me pause.

Everyone else sees dinner.

I see a photograph.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Sign2

Balnarring Jetty in Cape Schanck for Treasure Tuesday

 

Balnarring Beach is only about 40 minutes from Melbourne, an easy drive that I have made more times than I can remember. Yet somehow, this ordinary stretch of coast became the setting for a rather long-running obsession.

For more than four years, I kept coming back to the same broken pylons and beams, trying to photograph the water in a particular way. I had seen the image in my head: the sea curling and stretching away from the timber, forming those creamy, almost string-like threads of water—soft enough to feel painterly, but still retaining the sense of movement.

It sounds slightly ridiculous when I put it that way. Four years of returning to a beach for a particular shutter speed.

But photography has always had these little obsessions for me.

The tide had to be right. The light had to be right. The waves had to arrive with just the right amount of energy. And then there was the shutter speed—too fast, and the water remained ordinary water; too slow, and the delicate strands dissolved into a featureless blur. I would come home with something close, sometimes very close, and think, perhaps next time.

And then I would come back again.

Looking back, I think that is what I remember most—not just the photograph, but all those earlier visits. The quiet drives down from Melbourne, the familiar coastline, the changing seasons, the times when everything looked promising and somehow refused to come together. Four years is a long time to chase a small idea.

Perhaps that is why finally getting the shot felt so satisfying.

For a few seconds, everything aligned—the tide, the light, the movement of the sea and that tiny decision about shutter speed. The broken old beams stayed exactly where they had always been, while the water finally did what I had been asking it to do for years.

There is something wonderfully nostalgic about that.

Places become part of our photographic memory. We return to them older, carrying different cameras, different ideas, different versions of ourselves. The beach hasn't really changed, but somehow we have.

And every now and then, after years of trying, the sea gives you the photograph you came back for.

Maybe that is the real obsession.

Not getting the picture.

Just having a reason to keep coming back.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Treasure Tuesday

Breakfast with a side of visual overload in Adelaide for Mural Monday

 

The pink and blue mural next door was almost as difficult to ignore as the one I photographed last week — although I have since discovered that my so-called gangster geisha may not have been a geisha at all.

Sitting on that little stool with breakfast in front of me, I had both walls competing for attention. This one is a riot of pinks, blues and cartoonish creatures, oversized sunglasses, strange expressions and layers upon layers of tagging. It has that wonderfully unruly language of Australian street art — part pop surrealism, part comic book, part graffiti, with every available inch apparently regarded as an invitation for someone else to leave their signature.

And perhaps that is part of the charm. The mural itself is carefully composed, yet the wall continues to evolve around it, each new tag and scribble becoming another accidental layer in the picture. In Australia, street art and tagging have long occupied this slightly uneasy space between public expression, vandalism and urban culture. Sitting there eating a very ordinary bacon-and-egg breakfast beneath all that visual noise, I found the contrast rather entertaining.

Another week to go before daylight saving arrives and once again decides that my circadian rhythm needs to be rearranged for the greater good. At least spring has already arrived, bringing longer days, softer light and the promise of getting out with the camera again.

I think I am ready for some landscapes.

After all the walls, faces, signs and concrete of Adelaide, I am beginning to crave something with a little more sky.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Mural Monday

Inglewood night sky for Black and White Community

 

A long while ago, beneath the quiet skies of Inglewood, Victoria, I found myself looking up at a night I still remember.

In those earlier days, I used to travel out to the hostel for home visits, when medicine was still shaped by the warmth of a face-to-face conversation, and a doctor’s journey often led through sleepy country towns and open paddocks. The work took me there, but sometimes the landscape offered its own quiet reward.

That night, the darkness was almost absolute — a vast, unbroken field scattered with hay bales, their pale forms resting like forgotten stones beneath the heavens. With so little light to disturb the sky, the Milky Way emerged in all its quiet splendour, a river of stars flowing above the sleeping countryside.

I remember the stillness of it all: the scent of the paddocks, the deep country silence, and the feeling that time had briefly slowed down.

Some photographs preserve a landscape. Others hold a small fragment of a life that has since moved on. This one brings back those old journeys, when the road was longer, the nights were darker, and the stars seemed just a little closer.

Sony A7RV

FE 24mm f1.4 GM

Linking Black and White Community

Bridgewater Bay Blairgowrie for Skywatch Friday

 

You’re probably getting a little tired of seeing sunsets from Bridgewater Bay, Blairgowrie. But perhaps the sunset was never really the reason we came.

This was from a few months ago, one of those evenings when Joel and I simply needed to get away for a while. He had a lot on his mind and needed someone to listen, and I was happy to be that person. There are times when friendship is nothing more complicated than walking beside someone while they empty their thoughts into the open air.

We talked, wandered along the coast, stopped now and then, and watched the day slowly surrender to night. The sea was restless, but somehow the evening itself felt gentle. Five minutes before darkness settled completely, the last light turned everything purple and pink, and the long exposure softened the turbulent water into something dreamlike—a mirage of sea and cloud.

I took the photograph almost incidentally.

What I remember more clearly is having Joel beside me.

Perhaps these are the moments I value most in friendship—not the grand adventures, but the quiet hours when you can simply be there for each other, sharing the same horizon, listening without needing to fix anything.

The sunset eventually disappeared, as all sunsets do. But the companionship stayed.

And sometimes, that is the photograph worth keeping.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Skywatch Friday

Blairgowrie sunset at Bridgewater Bay for Water H2O Thursday

 

At Bridgewater Bay, the evening seemed to lose its edges.

Mist drifted through the last hour of light, softening the horizon until sea, sky and distant rock began to melt into one another. Everything was reduced to a quiet blur, steeped in the gentlest golden glow — a sunset less seen than felt.

Perhaps that was why I didn’t feel like reaching for my phone. Some evenings seem to ask for nothing but slowness: to stand still, let the world blur a little, and watch the light leave without trying to hold on to it.

I stopped updating Instagram this week. Then again, I haven’t updated the site for a few months either, lol. Life has been catching up with me, and perhaps I’ve been learning to let it.

I still prefer the slow web of Blogger to the hurried rhythm of Instagram. There’s something more intimate about it — a small, personal corner where photographs can linger, quietly, without needing to be seen by everyone.

And, of course, I don’t have to pay a subscription for it. That helps too.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Water H2O Thursday

Say Cheese Sign in Adelaide Central Market for Sign2

 

Last week, I came across the Smelly Cheese sign while browsing the Sign2 theme, and then stumbled upon another one right beside the store at Adelaide Central Market.

This one was wonderfully weird: two little rats sitting side by side, one proudly posing with a chunk of cheese while the other happily devours it. There was something almost tender about their strange little companionship—two rats sharing cheese as though this were the most perfectly normal arrangement in the world.

Cute? Absolutely. Weird? Completely. And somehow, that combination made it rather irresistible.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Sign2

Bridgewater Bay Blairgowrie for Treasure Tuesday

 

This was probably one of the most unusual scenes I have ever managed to capture at Bridgewater Bay, Blairgowrie, over the past twenty years. There was something almost painterly about it—an unexpected oil-painting quality, with a touch of impressionism woven into the frame. I absolutely love it.

Joel was around another corner, attempting his own experiment on the same view, though his version didn’t quite come together. I think I may have caught this one a little better than he did, lol.

The foreground water was silky and dreamlike, wrapping softly around the exposed sea-floor rocks, while beyond, the waves fell into a loose rhythm, their movement drawing the eye towards the distance. Above, the sky was steeped in a warm golden brew, with the distant arch quietly anchoring the horizon.

For once, the sea, the rocks and the sky seemed to forget they belonged to nature and decided, just for a moment, to become a painting.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Treasure Tuesday

Adelaide Sino Mural for Mural Monday

 

The mural of a heavily tattooed geisha stood beside me as I sat on a humble stool outside a tucked-away café, a bacon-and-egg breakfast plate resting in front of me, almost absurdly ordinary beneath the high-rises of Adelaide’s CBD.

She was turned sideways, her gaze cast elsewhere, yet the whole image had something strangely confrontational about it—the elaborate tattoos, the stark expression, the sheer intensity of the composition. Against the quiet ritual of breakfast, it felt almost too forceful, too pungent for my taste.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Mural Monday