Calling Shapes, Beckoning Shadows. I grew up in a concrete house surrounded by a garden of stones. The house was painted white, and dry pink flowers grew in pots that lined the dusty perimeter. At the end of the road, tall sand dunes rose high above the black tarmac and under the sharp glare of the sun everything would burn to pale, and the sky and sand would fade into one colour. A stretching space separated everything so that the distance from one place to the next was wide open. The long expanse of beach seemed to go on forever and when the wind rose, and the sand thrashed there was nowhere to hide.

(A selection of 30 photographs from a larger project)