Bicycle

I've always been fascinated by things, especially old things with stories imprinted on their faces. I like to imagine the daily routines they'd been involved into. How they had been used, how they had affected people's lives.

Last summer I visited open-air ethnographic museum in Nadole, a small fishermen's village in Pomerania. Lots of everyday history. Old cottages, equipment, forgotten things. I tried to imagine the life there then, at the beginning of the 20th century.

A woman in her mid-30s is seating on a stool in front of a half-timbered hut. She is peeling potatoes for a meal, for her children. It's a sunny morning and her bicycle is leaning against the wall, waiting for a ride. The sky is still clear, but the horizon is darkening.

A bicycle

The black heavy timbers which form the structure of her home bring to mind the hard, physical work that had been done to build the house. Simple yet strong shapes of the dark beams and their color contrasting with the light wattle and daub fill create a metaphor of a man facing life's adversities.

I imagine the situation happen again and again. The wheels are turning, the narrow path through the forest is winding, but she knows the way by heart and she could have closed her eyes or even fallen asleep to dream herself to her destination. The dark heavy skies start dropping large raindrops like evil spells to stop her journey.

Time passes by, she is on her way again, but the repeatability brings it to a standstill, a photograph, an eternal state of being.