I am fixated with travelling to the confines of the earth. I fantasise that with each new voyage I move further towards Ultima Thule – the mythical place of medieval geography, beyond the boundaries of the known world, where the sun goes to rest. In these latitudes, landscapes trace the geography of the abyss. And who are the people who inhabit them, peering over the edge of the precipice?
Finisterre is the result of this fascination: a personal journey through the Faroe Islands, a jigsaw-shaped archipelago that stands alone in the middle of the North Atlantic, halfway between Norway and Iceland. I travelled to the Faroes twice last year, staying with people I met randomly, photographing them, their families and their homes, sharing their daily lives and listening to their stories. It is part documentary and part fiction – documentary in that it portrays real people and places; fiction in that it seeks to evoke rather than tell. It is an intimate cartography of the end of the world, drawn by walking inside the landscape, rather than standing in front of it; an imaginary map pieced together out of fragments, impressions, stories and chance encounters.