I stepped into a landscape devoid of a mountain or even a hill, close to the birth place of Vincent van Gogh, and later the muse for poetry by Henriette Roland Holst.

No mountain to climb so instead I plunge. Dark stagnant waters in her long abandoned wild swimming pond and carved slivers of canals pencil straight, once used to drag piles of cut peat to the city to be burnt as fuel. Fortunes were made, humans cheaper than horses, the land savaged and burned.

What remains is a collage of time and ecology. Heather and woodland in various states of renewal and collapse. Rhododendrons, once markers of the estates grand entrance, now running amok.

Trees rest at new angles, caught in half fall by their neighbour. Others fractured, with limbs blackened by fire or rot. Pollard willows that appear repeatedly in Vincent’s works, call out, before having their head of thin waving branches cut.

A confusion of histories and characters emerge on my daily meditation walks in, down and twisting around this Brabants’ landscape. Encounters making me wonder if overnight I had stepped through, into an Asian Narnia of sorts.

Delicately and meticulously printed as scrolls, using the Japanese Toyobo chine-collé etching technique, the two sequences of six pay homage not only to Vincent and Henriette, but also Hasegawa Tohaku, and his master work of six sliding screen panels, Pine Trees, visited long ago in Kyoto.

The image size small and intimate, echoes miniature etchings by Rembrandt on display at the Rijksmuseum, my analogue 6 X 7 contact prints, yet also the image screen size of the SE iPhone. The mammoth consumption and creation of imagery in our palms is calmed and made material once more.