I have a long-lived affinity for sunsets, photographing sunsets, dating back, as far as I can remember, to a summer in Cape Sounion, Greece, where the waning sun bathed the veranda of the bungalow we rented, and where, for the first time I used a camera, a Kodak Instamatic 110, to capture more than a snapshot. I was really proud of that shot of the sun setting over the mediterranean, a ball of fire reflecting on the calm water that gently lapped onto the beach that was our playground, the same view the ancient greeks who worshipped Poseidon at the nearby temple would have had, two thousand years earlier. I haven’t read Jules Verne’s novel, “Le Rayon Vert”, but saw Eric Rohmer’s film by the same title that refers to it, and have since stared at many sunsets looking for the ‘green flash’. I’ve never seen it so the phenomenon retains, in my eyes, an aura of mystery and myth that accompanies me every time I witness a sunset. What I’ve come to observe is that, green flash aside, every sunset has its magical moment when the sky feels like it’s been painted. And if you wish to capture it, good luck. Most likely you’ll have to wait, exercise patience, get in tune with the rhythm of the moment, so different from the hectic pace of our lives, but wait an instant too long, or blink, or walk with your head down, and it’s gone. Luckily, there’s always tomorrow.

Walking Project 113 – painted sky – Altadena from chris worland on Vimeo.