An observational photographic essay from Sarakiniko, Milos.
We had to be there before dawn. The early morning sun illuminating the lunar landscape of Sarakiniko's chalk-white volcanic formations was a must-see on Milos, or so the locals we'd met insisted. Carved by wind and sea over millennia, these extraordinary rocks were once said to offer refuge to Saracen pirates, from whom the area takes its name. As we drove through the pre-dawn darkness, my mind wandered ahead to the prehistoric vistas we might encounter.
Instead, we arrived to find a new generation of raiders taking advantage of the landscape. A barren kingdom once again occupied by outsiders, only this time taking photos rather than plundering resources. They weren't capturing images of the rocks, shadows and striations, as I had imagined doing only minutes before, but rather of themselves and each other.
Bronzed, sun-kissed skin stood in stark contrast to the pale, flowing rock. The preferred poses were often in a relatively undressed state, captured by friends and partners again and again. Turn, lift your heel, look slightly downward, repeat. Flex, jump — did you get it?
I sling my own shirt over my bag, instinctively preserving it from soaking in sweat as the heat builds, even at this early hour. The rocks no longer matter to me, nor the unusually calm sea. Instead, I'm fascinated by these characters upon the stage, sacking an ancient treasure trove in pursuit of the perfect profile picture. Lonely images hiding the crowds. I have all of this to myself, they seem to say.
They were everywhere, and seemed to know just where to stand and when to wait their turn at the perfect spot. Interspersed like actors who had practised hitting their marks precisely. I feel awkward, an audience member accidentally pulled into the show. Camera in hand, I begin photographing the performers before me.
I laugh to myself at the absurdity of it all. A landscape transformed from serene, ancient and largely lifeless into a stage for one of the most ubiquitous rituals of modern life. The enduring reduced to a mere backdrop for the ephemeral.
I glance purposefully at my silhouette as we turn to make our way back. Raiders have taken many forms at Sarakiniko. Perhaps I was meant to be on the stage after all.