I didn’t go to the North to make a project. It started without a clear plan, just by being there for a long time and trying to understand the space around me.

The environment felt extreme. The cold, the wind, the black sand, the sea — everything had a strong presence, but at the same time it felt far away. Sometimes there was nothing, just silence. Other times it felt like the landscape was moving, like it had its own energy.

I heard stories from people who live there. Small things, not told in a dramatic way — just simple mentions of something in the land, something you feel but don’t explain. These stories stayed in my mind and slowly changed the way I looked at everything.

Ravens were always there. I kept seeing them again and again. After some time, they stopped feeling random. They felt like part of a pattern, like something watching or repeating. There was something familiar in them, but also something uneasy.

There were quiet moments — moonlight on ice, still air, distant smoke. And then there were moments that felt heavy and intense — strong winds, darkness, unstable weather. This shift between calm and tension became important in the work.

Shooting in black and white helped me stay close to the feeling. I was not interested in showing the place clearly. I wanted to show how it felt to be there.

Northern Folklore is not a description of the North. It is closer to a memory of it — something fragmented, unclear, and still changing over time.