The morning I drove to Saksun, the sky was the color of pewter. Clouds hung low over the fjord, drifting so slowly that the mountains seemed to breathe. The single-lane road wound through folds of mist and moss, its edges dissolving into grey. At times I could see nothing ahead but the faint glimmer of wet asphalt.

Then, as I climbed one last curve, the valley opened. A stream spilled down from the cliffs, twisting through green and stone before spreading into a still lagoon. The air was cool, saturated with salt and rain. In the distance stood a small cluster of black-timbered houses — roofs glistening with moisture, smoke lifting faintly from one chimney.

I stepped out of the car and the silence pressed close, deep and absolute. Even the sheep grazing on the slopes moved soundlessly. Only the hiss of a waterfall broke the quiet. I followed the sound until I reached the stream that ran in front of the farm. Its surface shimmered with the softest current, bending light into silver ribbons.

I waited there for a long time — no hurry, no plan. The rain eased into a fine mist that beaded on my jacket and camera. The light shifted from grey to pale gold, then back again, changing the valley’s tone with every breath of wind. I remember thinking that this place didn’t need to be seen quickly; it needed to be listened to.

Later, driving back through the fog, I realized that The Black Farm of Saksun wasn’t just about architecture or landscape. It was about the balance between endurance and change — how water shapes everything it touches, yet leaves enough for us to call home.

Part of my series Traces of Water, this artwork is a quiet study of patience — how rain, light, and time shape the places we call home. In Saksun, I found that stillness isn’t the absence of movement, but its most peaceful form.