There are summits which, in the tumult of winter, are transformed into works of art. The Singla, that day, presented itself to me in an almost unreal form. Freshly plastered with snow, it revealed a new face—no longer that of the fierce mountain of the Pennine Alps, but that of a natural sculpture, shaped by the wind and the light.

From my vantage point, I didn't see a summit , but a succession of lines. Sharp, parallel ridges, taut like violin strings. The contrast between the deep shadow of the hollows and the immaculate brilliance of the bumps gave the whole an almost abstract dimension. It is in these moments that the mountain ceases to be a place and becomes a language. The Singla spoke to me then in rhythms and textures. It was pure form, energy frozen in the moment. Fresh snow has this unique ability to reveal hidden structures, amplify light, redraw volumes. That day, the sun skimmed the slopes with precision, highlighting each line like alpine calligraphy. There was no artifice, no exaggeration: only the precision of nature.

In this work, I wanted to leave room for pure graphics. It is a photograph that does not seek to tell a story. summit , but to reveal an essence. That of the Singla, in its most perfect abstraction.