by Christopher Kay


The first step was taken towards a new path.

She had seen this type of path

many times in the light of day,

but in this instance,

only fragile illumination existed.

Her foot quivered as she took her second step

towards the truth she'd always asked for.

The darkness in the distance

made it impossible to know what lay ahead.

Each archway looked the same as the previous,

and the further she forged ahead,

the more infinite the path appeared.

But then something changed.

She looked behind her and

realised how far she had come.

The path ahead, albeit unknown,

was much shorter than what was behind her.

Confidently, she moved through the door,

into the unknown,

and now understood

exactly what she needed to do.



A night of Wagner.

The sounds of the orchestra

elegantly filled the gaps

of conversations about the beloved Cosima

and inspiration for Siegfried Idyll.

The Winter’s night felt deathly cold,

but the attraction between them

had grown to beautifully terrifying proportions.

Both had come from places of pain

and emotional trauma

and hadn’t forgotten how to love,

but had simply forgotten to love. 

The last few weeks had left them tightly wound,

things unspoken, things untouched.

He set the mood.

Warm pools of light filled the room

and reflections of candlelight

danced majestically on the walls around them.

It was then that she revealed her grand gesture.

Something to relax.

Something for warmth.

Something Japanese.




He is an artist. 

In body. In mind. In spirit.

But necessity had led him down

quite a peculiar path indeed.

He had to pretend he was something he was not,

ensuring his bread and butter was earned

so that he could live a comfortable, solitary existence

in his little corner of the Earth.

As he hid amongst the collars of white,

his artistry began to break through the seams.

A fire would still idly burn

in the darkest parts of his eyes,  and bring

an extraordinary brightness to his entire demeanour

whenever he spoke of ‘art’.

Yet under this new identity,

he was constantly sought after for his gifts,

and had felt used by those

whom would never really know the real him.

They would fly him everywhere

in order to tap into the brilliance

that he was trying to hide from them all,

and on that fateful day of inevitability;

the sun was setting, the plane touched down

and the taxi ushered him to his tiny hotel room

complete with single-serve mini bar.

He stood on his balcony and with a clear sky

and an even clearer mind,

and he finally remembered

that all of this was only a detour.



The Grey Album, photographs and words by Christopher Kay are
©Door Hinge Studios Pty Ltd 2020