The way Paul Guilmoth sees the nocturnal world is intriguingly unusual: a spacetime place where darkness and light dance together giving rise to evanescent and uncanny images. Their recent book, At Night Gardens Grow, published by Stanley Barker, is a silent requiem where visual fragments coexist like a disturbing dream: they defy any notion of rationality, embracing the stunning fascination of the unfamiliar. Between the personal landscapes of home and the landslides of identity, there is a universe made of shapes, contrast, and ambiguous feelings that harken back to a symbolism of the past, a black-and-white mythology that awakens interest in things that are created at the very moment that are destroyed. Each image requires a second look and it is as if, at each gaze, they change. They seem to be asking: Do you really realize what is evolving all around you? Are you aware of all the small details that change in the darkness of your unawareness?
When talking about the project, Guilmoth wrote, “The week before Trula died, she began spending entire days reclined in her field.” Even if it’s not clear who Trula is, we know that the book is entirely dedicated to this person. “Her body would be so still we’d come up closer to be sure she hadn’t left us. A slight movement of her head chasing a loose swallow, or a finger grazing a plucked blade of grass was enough. Tuesday night she had come into the kitchen after a particularly long 12 hours in her field. Her hair disheveled like a bird nest. She looked at a rhubarb stalk on the table and said to us “all this time I’ve never seen the flowers growing, but they’re taller every morning.”
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