I am on the balcony in Sils Maria, looking down at a patch of snow behind the old house. A clearing, its surface punctuated by small holes left by melting snow falling from the larches — their shadows render the topography still legible against the abundant light that almost dissolves it into pure whiteness. The light bouncing around, moving between surfaces, framed on both sides by the luminous cerulean blue of the shadow.

I have my equipment with me but I debate with myself, questioning whether the scene is worth the effort of manoeuvring my heavy camera — whether this will be one of the photographs that speaks, or one of the many that don't.

 I have made this calculation before. I make it often. Something in me recognises it. I cannot explain what it is and have stopped trying.

I take out the camera and set it up. I approach it carefully, from many angles, in many ways — the scene is too fragile to be rushed. Only once I feel I have given it my full attention do I stop. Then it is no longer mine. Like a seed left to grow, the photograph will take its own time. It decides when it is ready to speak.