Being Here by Øyvind Hjelmen
A person stands, then is gone. Not in the way that absence feels sudden, but in the way time moves through things—slow, weightless, ungraspable. The wind does not take them, not exactly, but it shifts around them, through them, as if they were always part of it. A trace remains, but is it presence or memory?
Øyvind Hjelmen’s Being Here moves within this question. The images do not insist, do not hold—they let time breathe. A figure drifts in soft light, a hand lifts, a body turns away. Objects rest in their own quiet, their own certainty. Yet nothing is still. Even in silence, there is motion, something imperceptible passing between what is seen and what is felt.
It is not loss, not exactly. More like a folding of time, a space where past and future press against one another until they are no longer separate. What once was is never entirely gone. What will be is already forming. The line between them is thin, dissolving. The world, in its simplest state, just is. Rock. Air. Water. A breath that does not belong to anyone, but moves through everything.
To be here is to exist in that shifting space. To see without grasping. To let meaning arrive and recede, arrive and recede—like the tide, like the wind. And maybe that is enough. To walk in the day, where tree is tree, where stone is stone, where the weight of time lifts for just a moment. To stand still and feel, without needing to hold anything at all.
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Being Here by Øyvind Hjelmen
A person stands, then is gone. Not in the way that absence feels sudden, but in the way time moves through things—slow, weightless, ungraspable. The wind does not take them, not exactly, but it shifts around them, through them, as if they were always part of it. A trace remains, but is it presence or memory?
Øyvind Hjelmen’s Being Here moves within this question. The images do not insist, do not hold—they let time breathe. A figure drifts in soft light, a hand lifts, a body turns away. Objects rest in their own quiet, their own certainty. Yet nothing is still. Even in silence, there is motion, something imperceptible passing between what is seen and what is felt.
It is not loss, not exactly. More like a folding of time, a space where past and future press against one another until they are no longer separate. What once was is never entirely gone. What will be is already forming. The line between them is thin, dissolving. The world, in its simplest state, just is. Rock. Air. Water. A breath that does not belong to anyone, but moves through everything.
To be here is to exist in that shifting space. To see without grasping. To let meaning arrive and recede, arrive and recede—like the tide, like the wind. And maybe that is enough. To walk in the day, where tree is tree, where stone is stone, where the weight of time lifts for just a moment. To stand still and feel, without needing to hold anything at all.
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A person stands, then is gone. Not in the way that absence feels sudden, but in the way time moves through things—slow, weightless, ungraspable. The wind does not take them, not exactly, but it shifts around them, through them, as if they were always part of it. A trace remains, but is it presence or memory?
Øyvind Hjelmen’s Being Here moves within this question. The images do not insist, do not hold—they let time breathe. A figure drifts in soft light, a hand lifts, a body turns away. Objects rest in their own quiet, their own certainty. Yet nothing is still. Even in silence, there is motion, something imperceptible passing between what is seen and what is felt.
It is not loss, not exactly. More like a folding of time, a space where past and future press against one another until they are no longer separate. What once was is never entirely gone. What will be is already forming. The line between them is thin, dissolving. The world, in its simplest state, just is. Rock. Air. Water. A breath that does not belong to anyone, but moves through everything.
To be here is to exist in that shifting space. To see without grasping. To let meaning arrive and recede, arrive and recede—like the tide, like the wind. And maybe that is enough. To walk in the day, where tree is tree, where stone is stone, where the weight of time lifts for just a moment. To stand still and feel, without needing to hold anything at all.
