Dan Johns

An old farm gate rests beneath a tangle of wind-shaped trees, its timber weathered by salty air and seasons. Beyond it, a whitewashed farmhouse sits against the gentle rise of the Cornish land, steadfast, solitary, and sun-touched. The air feels briny and still, as though the sea is just out of sight but very much present. It is a scene of threshold and belonging. A moment suspended between the wild hedgerows and the promise of hearth and home beyond.