During my childhood my dad would take photographs of our family with his heavy, black SLR camera, carried on a strap around his neck with a strange pattern in black, orange and purple colours. I remember having my photograph taken with it on holidays to Greece and Sweden; having to stop in random places when he had found a beetle he wanted to photograph and the blurry prints of the shiny beetles when they came back from the photo lab; sitting down on a low wall near a beach in Greece, smiling back at the camera as we posed for him.
November and I, we don’t get along. Growing up in Denmark, November meant the most grey, the most gloomy and melancholic month of the year. Long-browned leaves fallen of the trees, leaving the branches naked and stark, no school holidays, nothing to look forward to except Christmas and an even colder January. Just endless, boring days of thick, grey clouds hanging over the world that would make me feel melancholic and restless. The days that held any kind of sunshine could be counted on just one, maybe two fingers.