Postcard Series – London

Back in the day when London was reaching out to the world, I wonder if they’d imagined a time when the whole world could be contained by the city. London is exotic and foreign, and feels like home, all at once. It moves ahead and stands still and twirls between histories.

I’m glad to be a part of it, even if it’s just for a minute.

London, July 2011

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I’ve taken to writing (myself) postcards when travelling. I’ve this image in my head, of me, thirty-forty years down the line, going through stacks of yellowing postcards, and thinking about the good old days, a cup of hot chai in hand.

Postcard Series – Bergen


It’s 10 o’clock at  night and the sun is shinning bright. The cafes and restaurants are full, dinners are being served. Small round and square tables are covered by large umbrellas protecting patrons from the midnight sun. This is so weird!

Bergen, June 2007

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I’ve taken to writing (myself) postcards when travelling. I’ve this image in my head, of me, thirty-forty years down the line, going through stacks of yellowing postcards, and thinking about the good old days, a cup of hot chai in hand.

Postcard Series – Amsterdam


Yesterday, I had a space-cake; I spent my day in an exploding kaleidoscope. Now I’m standing in front of Van Gogh’s best work. It’s a dizzy whirl of colours and emotions, pain and joy, each cut, stabbed, smudged and gently kissed by a stroke of his brush. The space-cake was fine, but this is what I guess they call a real high.

Amsterdam, July 2011

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I’ve taken to writing (myself) postcards when travelling. I’ve this image in my head, of me, thirty-forty years down the line, going through stacks of yellowing postcards, and thinking about the good old days, a cup of hot chai in hand.

Postcard Series – Paris

I’m stepping into a picture that is made of paper and ink. I walk amidst the dusty aisles, running my fingertips against titles, new and old. So many words in one tiny space; I soak them in one by one.

Paris, July 2010

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I’ve taken to writing (myself) postcards when travelling. I’ve this image in my head, of me, thirty-forty years down the line, going through stacks of yellowing postcards, and thinking about the good old days, a cup of hot chai in hand.