L U R E D I N T O L A V E N D E R
Model: Amie Hampsheir-Gill @monamiepics
Photographer: Martin Sylvester @martinjsylvester Writer: Lexi Woodhall @lexi_woodhall
The way home is along the empty lavender field. No one knows who owns it, just beds upon beds of abandoned lavender lavenders. The flower of dreams and the scent of sleep. The town all adhere to the widow’s warnings, stay out of the lavender gardens. We roll our eyes and laugh them off, but never take that step into the dirt. Teen boys will dare each other who can get closer, girls pose with the purple back drop, and families take an afternoon stroll on the other side of the road. But we all walk past on pavement, trying to not think too hard about who leaves the footprints in the mud between the flowers. Collectively ignore the flashes of skin moving between the flowers. On my way home I walk teasingly along the edge of the grass, playing at bravery. One foot in front of the other with arms outstretched so the wind that skims each flower petal can trace the insides of my fingers. The breeze starts to pick up and I go to grab my hat, but it’s too quick and too late, the straw is being carried away. Guided like a leaf from a tree into the flowers. I stop at the edge, foot ghosting the start of the cool wet mud. I pull it back to pavement, then step, then pull it back, seemingly unable to walk into the patch.
During my debate My eyes catch a flash of movement off to the centre of the field, I look up. There is my hat. It’s held up by a hand. The straw rim is a flower on a flesh stalk growing from the ground itself. The rest of the body slowly rises, her clothes like lavender themselves, she takes long soft strides towards me, hat in hand, winds tangling in mouse blonde hair. Her body sways with each step forward. She bends down to meet my eyes in one exaugurated movement. She’s tall. I hold out my hand for my hat back, unable to breathe under the gaze of cornflower blue eyes. She looks down at it. Pauses. Laughs. Her head tossed back, white teeth displayed. They’re sharp, and white and her voice is the tinkering of bells. Even in tone, but high in voice. Lavender lady turns her back to me on heels of bare feet into mud. I watch her move further away from me, back into the fluid, my hat still clutched tight in one fist. Her body moves in dances, twists and even little tumbles where she lets her body fall to the earth, hidden in the flowers. Sitting, she stares at me grinning. Deliberately and slowly she places my hat on her head. She is challenging me to chase her. The way a dog steals socks from your hands and when it wants you to play.
I smile my own grin back, I like games. So, I walk away. During those Spring and Summer seasons I walk past that field almost every day, sometimes twice, yet I only catch sight of my hat thief less than a handful of times. Once, during a Summer shower I leave my umbrella just over the edge of the field, almost home anyway, what’s a bit of water going to do, and a few weeks later I see her again. Yellow umbrella popped open in the sun. She’s wearing a new dress this time, yellow as well. I try and not think about how a girl down the road went missing a few nights before, last seen in a yellow floral dress. I try not to think of a boy’s missing photo in the papers where he displays a hauntingly similar black rope bracelet to that that twists around her wrist. Instead I opt to watch her dance, souls of feet dark from treading spins into soil.
RIVER ISLAND Hat: MONSOON
The last time is in the late Summer, the flowers are drooping, and the mud is watery and slick. As I walk, I feel a tug on my neck from behind and a cold wind hits my bare neck. I turn and their she stands. Scarf in hand just the other side of a grass barrier. As she stands the wind pulls it, threatening to steal from the thief. Wilted like the flowers behind her. She looks tired, she smiles small. There is no warmth on her shoulders, no sun lighting her hair in halo glows, just wind that threatens to tear petals from stalks. Yellow dress, straw hat, rope bracelet. She holds out her other hand as if trying to get me to come see. Come and see what happened in the scent of sleep, in the fluid of dreams, in her bed of earth. Come play before the summer ends.
Dress: WALLIS Hat: MONSOON
MORE ABOUT THE MODEL: Amie Hampsheir-Gill is a London based model, who integrates stories and emotions into her work. After partially losing her memory to the treatment of her Ulcerated Colitis in 2014, she perceives modelling to be acting without words, and endeavours to continue conveying tales through her art. You can find her on Instagram: @monamiepics
MORE ABOUT THE PHOTOGRAPHER: Martin is a portrait and lifestyle photographer based in London. He’s an experienced wedding photographer with a trained minds eye to capture the essence of any individual uniquely. In a fast-paced environment without room for error, Martin has learnt to capture the art of documentary with any subject he works with. His love for street and urban photography informs his decision of process through observation of the way the light beautifully and unexpectedly plays with the subject and the surroundings. Drawing from these two styles has led Martin down the path for the passion of portraiture. With an attention to detail and the desire to create dramatic and exceptional images, he is capable of telling multiple storytelling through the viewer’s imagination. You can find him on Instagram here: @martinjsylvester
MORE ABOUT THE WRITER: Lexi Woodhall wanted to be a fairy when she grew up, once she found out that wasn’t a viable career option, she channelled that creativity into her writing. Additionally, she pays no mind to her dyslexia, enjoying every artistic outlet she can. She enjoys pushing the limits of Sc-Fi, fantasy, and horror with LGBT twists. You can find her on Instagram here: @lexi_woodhall
Want to be considered for a webitorial feature ?
where proceeds goes straight to Muscular Dystrophy UK Charity...
Submit today via Kavyar