The way Paul Guilmoth sees the nocturnal world is surprisingly unusual: a space-time where darkness and light dance together giving rise to evanescent and strange images. Their latest book, At night the gardens grow, published by Stanley Barker, is a silent requiem where visual fragments coexist like in a disturbing dream: they defy all notion of rationality, embracing the staggering fascination of the unknown. Between the personal landscapes of the house and the landslides of identity, there is a universe made of shapes, contrasts and ambiguous feelings that refer to a symbolism of the past, a black and white mythology that awakens the interest in the things that are created. at the same time that are destroyed. Each image requires a second look and it is as if, with each look, they change. They seem to be wondering: do you really realize what is happening around you? Are you aware of all the little details that change in the darkness of your unconsciousness?
Speaking of the project, Guilmoth wrote: “The week before Trula died, she started spending whole days lying in her field.” Although it is unclear who Trula is, we know that the book is entirely dedicated to this person. “Her body would be so still that we approached to make sure she hadn’t left us. A slight movement of the head chasing a cowardly swallow, or a finger brushing a torn blade of grass was enough. On Tuesday evening, she had entered the kitchen after a particularly long 12 hours in her field. Her hair disheveled like a bird’s nest. She looked at a stalk of rhubarb on the table and told us “all this time I have never seen the flowers grow, but they are taller every morning”.