Ian Harrold | Strands | A Breton beach

The littoral, the space between the tides. A place to walk, to wander and to gaze upon the ocean. Lost in thought as the sand gives way beneath the feet, pools of salt water flow around the toes.

Here we see the flotsam and jetsam of twelve of our hours deposited as if for our appraisal, as the tide recedes, lapping back and forth organic material along with our discards are left.

But before each character finally comes to rest it has a final gesture, a flourish. Its mark upon the sand remains, waiting for the tide to return to write a new story on the strand line. Shot in 'the golden hour' in the last heat of the sun. The black deposits in the sand might be manganese, iron or other heavy minerals.

I have begun to realise that this cyclical process is perhaps allegorical, representing phases of our own existence. Redemption, against all odds, might be attainable?