On a rainy morning, the stone steps of an old temple turn a deep shade of grey. 

Moss grows quietly between the cracks, 

water gathers beneath the eaves, and the scent of damp timber mingles 

with a faint trace of incense drifting from somewhere out of sight.

I have always been drawn to such moments when travelling. 

They rarely announce themselves as anything remarkable. 

A sudden change in light, the rustling of leaves in an unfamiliar garden, 

or the cool air passing through a wooden corridor. 

Sometimes, the atmosphere of a place is more memorable than the place itself.

For years, I have travelled with a camera, collecting images of buildings, 

landscapes, and the small details that catch my attention. 

Photography has taught me to observe more carefully, 

yet it has also made me aware of what cannot be contained within a frame.

A photograph preserves the appearance of a moment. 

It cannot quite retain the temperature of the air, 

the sound of footsteps on wet stone, 

or the scent that passes through a room when a window is opened.

Strangely, these are often the things that return to us most vividly.

The smell of fallen leaves may recall an autumn afternoon from years ago. 

A trace of smoke can bring back a particular courtyard, 

its weathered walls and the quiet movement of trees. 

Such memories arrive without warning, 

sometimes before we can even identify where they belong.

 

Perhaps memory has little regard for what we consider important at the time.

We photograph the things we wish to remember, 

while the mind quietly keeps others. Over the years, 

places become less precise in our recollection. 

Their details fade, yet certain impressions remain unexpectedly clear.

Working with natural aromatic materials at SSLK has made me increasingly attentive 

to this curious relationship between scent and memory.

Wood, herbs, and resins each carry their own character. 

Some are dry and warm, others green, earthy, or faintly bitter. 

A familiar fragrance may suggest a forest after rain, 

an old wooden house, or a landscape visited long ago.

These associations are deeply personal. 

The same scent may awaken entirely different memories in different people, 

shaped by the places they have lived and the experiences they have gathered.

Perhaps this is why I find little interest in reproducing 

the exact fragrance of a particular place. 

What remains in memory is rarely an accurate record of reality. 

It is something more elusive, altered by time, distance, and our own changing lives.

Lately, I have begun to reconsider what I want to photograph when I travel.

There are places I have visited and photographed carefully, 

only to find that the images tell me very little about how I felt there. 

And there are moments I never thought to record, 

which have remained with me for years.

A narrow path after rain. The scent of leaves warming in the afternoon sun. 

A quiet room in which the light slowly moves across the floor.

Long after the photographs have been put away, 

these small impressions may still return.

Sometimes, all it takes is a familiar scent.