“There is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.”
— Leonard Cohen
The Horse Who Knew Too Much, Lagunillas, Región de Valparaíso, Chile, 2008
I wasn’t planning to have a conversation with a horse today, not a real one, anyway. Grief can make you do strange things. It can also bring you to unexpected places, like a remote ranch in the Valle de Casablanca, where the hills roll in slow, wine-soaked rhythms and time seems to stretch just enough for a person to hear themselves think. Dangerous territory.
The horse appeared in the dim window of the stall like a priest emerging from a confessional, solemn, patient, impossibly aware. He wasn’t glamorous. His mane fell like he’d given up on brushing years ago, and the wooden stable around him leaned in with its own tired elegance. But he looked at me, truly looked at me, with one startlingly clear eye, tilting his head as if to say: Alright, human. Start talking.
There are moments in life when you realize the universe might be using its oddest messengers. I’ve spent years chasing metaphor in trees, fog, flowers, vultures, anything that holds still long enough for a lens and long enough for my thoughts to hang on to. But here was this creature, framed perfectly between rough boards and warm ochre walls, staring straight through me with the kind of blunt curiosity only an animal or a toddler can achieve without being rude.
And suddenly, without warning, I felt the weight of everything I had been avoiding. Loss has a way of trailing behind you like a stubborn pet, refusing to sit or stay, and absolutely unwilling to be ignored. The horse seemed to sense it. Or perhaps he was simply hoping I had brought carrots. Either way, the effect was the same: I found myself speaking into the quiet barn, confessing things I hadn’t even admitted to myself.
The image I made that day holds all of this. The darkness behind the horse feels like the unspoken things we carry. The warm golden exterior walls soften the ache, reminding me that grief is not only sharp, it’s also strangely tender. And the horse, with that unbelievably straight white blaze down his face, becomes both witness and companion.
He isn’t consoling me. He isn’t judging me. He is simply present.
And maybe that’s what loss asks from us: not a solution, not a lesson, not even acceptance. Just presence. Slightly disheveled, slightly funny, stubbornly alive presence.
When I look at the image now, I see a quiet dialogue between two solitary figures, one human, one animal, meeting at the threshold between shadow and light. We don’t solve anything. We don’t need to. We just acknowledge each other across the wooden divide, two creatures trying to make sense of our own wild, unpredictable interiors.
And honestly, that’s more connection than most conversations I’ve had with humans recently.
Artist Statement
My work arises from the need to translate inner feelings into visual form. In this image, I explore grief not as an event but as a companion, quiet, persistent, and unexpectedly generous. The solitary horse becomes a symbol of presence and witness, framed between darkness and warmth. I approach photography as a way to articulate the spaces where words fail, allowing fragments of memory, emotion, and humor to coexist. This piece reflects my ongoing search for meaning in ambiguity and my belief that even in loss, there is room for tenderness, connection, and a touch of quiet absurdity.