I'm Sebastien, I am rather fond of taking photographs of trees, sky and '60s architecture. I'm equally fond of using the camera to create bleak landscapes.

I write quiet music and release it through Make Mine Music

I was born during the winter of 1979 in the industrial landscapes of the north-west Midlands. I currently live in Sheffield.

I'm a socialist and a vegetarian.

I rather like, and in no order, the following: Derek Jarman, Quentin Crisp, Joan Crawford, Christopher Isherwood, Dusty Springfield, Jonathan Ames, Electronic Music, the early films of John Carpenter and the British modernist movement.

I can also be found in the following places:
Lastfm
Twitter
Blog
Soundcloud

February 17, 2012

When I was out walking in the February drizzle I felt an odd pang of melancholy; it’s a sadness I feel every so often during the early months of the year and sadness I used to feel more keenly as a child. It is a longing for autumn. I remember sitting in classrooms staring at grey uninteresting skies through windows flecked with rain wishing I could sleep these empty months away and wake up in time for that impossibly beautiful prelude to autumn: the eight-week holiday. I don’t think when I was a child that my longing for autumn was particularly romantic: Hallowe’en, Guy Fawkes Night, the colouring of the leaves, Blackpool Illuminations, and then as winter began, walking home from school in the dark on pavements which glittered under your feet, collecting frozen spiderwebs with sticks from hedges at playtime, window frost, clear starry nights. (although writing about them in retrospect I suppose they do seem rather sentimental.)

When I was out walking in the February drizzle I felt an odd pang of melancholy; it’s a sadness I feel every so often during the early months of the year and sadness I used to feel more keenly as a child. It is a longing for autumn. I remember sitting in classrooms staring at grey uninteresting skies through windows flecked with rain wishing I could sleep these empty months away and wake up in time for that impossibly beautiful prelude to autumn: the eight-week holiday.

I don’t think when I was a child that my longing for autumn was particularly romantic: Hallowe’en, Guy Fawkes Night, the colouring of the leaves, Blackpool Illuminations, and then as winter began, walking home from school in the dark on pavements which glittered under your feet, collecting frozen spiderwebs with sticks from hedges at playtime, window frost, clear starry nights. (although writing about them in retrospect I suppose they do seem rather sentimental.)