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.

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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.

Postcard Series – Paris

There’s a person in a gorilla suit running about the base of the Eiffel, a hairy black blur between the metal of the tower and the colours of summer. The gorilla poses with kids for a few Euros parents are willing to shell for a novelty photo. The rest of the time it offers to pose for a few Euros or chats with the armed cops and vendors, always running and hopping, waving its hairy arms, wearing a phantom smile. It must be hard having that job during a heat wave.

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.

Postcard Series – Korčula


The water is filthy. Marko at the marina says the garbage is coming from Albania. I almost laugh but there is anger in his words, rough and volatile.

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The town within the walls is tiny crooked lanes and large structures, all made of stone. It creates an illusion of space in a place where it’s impossible to get lost.

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From the pizzeria along the walls I can see the water, and the frantic clean-up operation. I order a pizza called ‘Stari Grad’ – Old Town; it has aubergine on it and is surprisingly good.

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It’s getting darker. The fishing boats are pulling out. The garbage is lost in the darkness. Korčula is beautiful again.

Korčula, Croatia, May 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.

Postcard Series – Mumbai

I don’t recognize the city in this photo. I don’t recognize the city in front of me. Every day it changes a little bit, changing completely and yet not changing at all.

Everything is jumbled: Everything is new. It’s all the same. I am a stranger. I am at home. I sweat unbearably. I am perfectly comfortable. I want to leave. I want to stay.

In the jumble it all makes sense.

Mumbai, April 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.