We are formed. We are forming.
Ronen, Tamin, Glenn, Sarah, Jon, Clemma, Magdalena and Marc. Eight wagons in a caravan. Eight spokes to a wheel, turning in the same direction, across sands and mountain passes, from the Gobi to Everest. Our journey is begun.
We explore, reflect, probe and share.
We are nothing if not profane. We drink, swear and irritate. We laugh, cry and rebirth. We grow into this foreignness- relentless desert winds, horizons that fade into nothing, the absurd white sheen of a Gher camp rising from dust and sand. We grow into each other- our dreams merge and mutate, the boundaries of our minds blur and blend.
We write, film, photograph and dance.
We are motley. Dust permeates our hair and pores. Tempers flare and subside. Laughter erupts and quiets. Questions fly in every direction- so many questions. Then, slowly, the answers form, emerging from each of us like images falling into focus. And in the midst of all this newness we see, clearly, that this works.
We are here. We are grateful.