In 2002, I journeyed to Torres del Paine, drawn by the immensity of Grey Glacier—a vast body of ice where silence and light intertwined.
A small boat carried us across the grey lake, fragile beneath the relentless Patagonian wind. As we approached, the glacier revealed itself: immense, layered, luminous. It seemed eternal.
Waves struck the bow, and the spray scattered across the glass, creating brief patterns—water painting its own language upon the window.
I felt the weight of the landscape in that moment, its scale beyond comprehension, its presence almost sacred.
Years later, those fleeting impressions return with a sharper truth. What once felt unchanging is now gone. The Grey Glacier has retreated more than 1.6 kilometers since that day.
Maps tracing its borders—1969, 2013, 2018, 2025—mark the slow erasure of time. The place where I stood has dissolved into the lake.
In the photographs, I see fragments of what remains: blue corridors of ice, reflections trembling on the water, fissures glowing from within.
I remember climbing the ice walls, entering the deep “Moulins” where meltwater spiraled into shadow. Every image carries a conversation with time—between what endures and what disappears.
These works are not only records but recollections: visual witnesses of a world fading from sight, preserved in pigment and memory.
Explore the series at gcs.photo — fine art photography where water, memory, and time become poetic meditation.
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