SAX IMPEY

Begin with the medium... a stick of charcoal, that most ancient of material... perhaps the oldest, alongside ochre, the drawing mud of our forebears…

There is shape, and form to be discovered, the forms which sit massive, yet are made elusive, and fragmentary through ethereal mists... rain clouds obscure, and give space to ancient voices.
 
The strata, running horizontally throughout, perpendicular to runnels, cracks and crevices, borne of the ceaseless water... the skeleton of the land, conjuring in the mind the mere hint of a possibility of awareness, of the deep time of our planet home…

We see a pulse rate in geological deep time, the ossified heartbeat of the land... Land of mist and cloud… no city in the world sees less sun than the tiny capital Tórshavn, where the Vikings established their ting, and carved their optimistic sun dial on the flat rocks of Tinganes…

We have sailed to these islands onboard Excelsior, a gaff rigged Lowestoft fishing smack… when these sailing vessels were superseded by newer, diesel engined boats in the British fishing fleets, many found new homes further north, in Scandinavia and the Faroe Islands. At every mooring we make, we are visited by singular old men, who sit and stare silently at the vessel of their own working past, and the memory of their youth…

Sax Impey, 2025