The horizon is our point of reference in the landscape. We determine scale and distance from it. It is the liminal edge where the sky touches the earth. It provides the base line for perspective drawings and gives the eye its bearings.

When you live at the edge of a continent, the elemental powers of weather, wind, and wave strip away your sentimentality for nature. Here you feel the force of the ocean at night as it grinds the granite boulders into sand. After storms, whole chucks of shore will have disappeared. Hurricanes rip away wharves and deposit sofas on the beach. Since moving to Nova Scotia in 2004, I have walked along the Atlantic shoreline near my house almost every day and have learned to watch its changing light. There is a special quality of light here. It sinks into your soul and becomes part of how you view the world. I roam this shore with my dog as a flâneur of light marking the protean edge of the horizon.

These images are distillations of many walks when the wind blew almost everything away except for the transcendent light. I’m a street photographer by inclination. The shoreline has become the street where I now most frequently wander.