What do you do when you are haunted by flits and flickers of suggested wonders when you turn to look around? When a scene delicate etches a story in your heart? When you catch your breath for a fragment of a moment because you saw something or thought you saw something.. There are moments between moments and it is those which I live for, those which stop time indefinitely in a second by suggesting a world beyond.. If I could trap the spark and hold there, I would. I would photograph a feeling, I would pin the cloud to the sky. I can't, but through my photography I can try.. Each of my pictures...

What do you do when you are haunted by flits and flickers of suggested wonders when you turn to look around? When a scene delicate etches a story in your heart? When you catch your breath for a fragment of a moment because you saw something or thought you saw something.. There are moments between moments and it is those which I live for, those which stop time indefinitely in a second by suggesting a world beyond.. If I could trap the spark and hold there, I would. I would photograph a feeling, I would pin the cloud to the sky. I can't, but through my photography I can try.. Each of my pictures is such a moment, or have become one on their own accord, it is an angle from which you might see the world, it is a fragment of life..

My story really began in an old country house in the southern part of Zealand, Denmark. It was old and it was full of life.. It lay in an island of a garden old as the house with wild roses climbing up apple trees and birds nests in hollow trunks. On one side it was bordered by a small, blind road, on two others there were open fields, sloping down to the last border was the forest and not very far through there was the shore and the sea.. I loved the details then as I do now and I experienced some of those in-between-moments already then.. One such moment I still remember, a golden childhood myth: On a warm summer day I went on an exploration expedition in the old barn connected to our house. A long ladder led up to the old dusty hayloft. It was very quiet. Beams of sunlight penetrated the old roof various places and dust swirled and danced in the light. It looked like gold. Far back in the hayloft I could almost see something. The motes of gold swirled lazy around it, obscuring the view. Making it glow. It was an old horse drawn wooden wagon meant for harvest. Having no clue on how old it really was it was ancient to me, magical even. Since then I have picked my way through childhood and school. I have dreamt and woke up to the uncertainty of teenage years, filling out my world with the magic of books and imagination as magic seemed to fade like an old photograph of a child with a crown of daisy. I have packed my life into a bag to face a year of untold adventures, now a well worn and much beloved first edition in the book shelf of my heart, telling the tales of dear friends and places, wonders I have taken part of or which have stolen my breath as I beheld them. I picked up my camera, I saw the world through new eyes as once I used to, realizing that wonder and magic is unlimited, abundant in this world and that all it takes is an open heart. My journey continues through life with a thirst unquenched and a love unending.. As a wise man once said, the greatest blessing we have is the dawn of each new day..

I leave most of my images unedited, though sometimes I work a bit with contrast saturation or colour balance. Lately though, I have taken to work with photo manipulation as well, but these will be in a gallery on their own and it will be made clear.

If you desire to buy a larger quantity for retail, please contact me and we can work something out, I have a private gallery with notable scaled down prices for the purpose.

Fly forever free,
-Nenyath

P.s. Some of the first paragraph is heavily inspired by the lyrics to Marillion's song "Trap the Spark", for more information and vast inspiration, see www.marillion.com