http://www.martijnvanmierlo.com/

Martijn van Mierlo Photography and Visual Arts, 421 8th Avenue, New York, NY (2025)

04/28/2025

Daniël, Spring 2025, Hertendom, Belgium
Thank you, you beautiful soul for crossing my path in life and enlighten me, teach me about love and life, for great talks, drinks and breakfast, marshmallows at the campfire underneath the stars and coffee with forest orchestra of birds… thank you for in inviting me to your sanctuary and showing me the light!
You’re amazing and helped me pave a new path.

04/12/2025

Dimphena, late winter toward early spring 2025, Hertendom, Belgium.
•
•
Thank you for being out there dear Dimphena, for fixing a broken wing and teach me how to fly again.
In love’s embrace I wish you more than well, enjoy your wonderful weekends with your loved ones and the special weekends at ‘t Hertendom’ with Daniël.
Hugs and love, you’re a damn bright star - Betelgeuse.
•
•

04/10/2025

Pim, early 2025, Raamsdonksveer, the Netherlands.
•
•
You’ve been struggling through a lot, but dear Pim do know the sun also shines for you, may this spring bring you the sunshine, rain and mental food to grow and flourish again! Be well take care beautiful soul!
•

04/02/2025

Last picture for this series… because a new spring is awaiting and it is moving fast.
•
(We) Shouldn’t Have Let That Spring Pass By.
•
the black birds,
I can’t hear them no more.
Nor do I see
morning light, on the kitchen top,
in the eyes above a steaming coffee cup.
it may still be there in a town no longer mine.
On that exit road along the malls, my heart skipped a beat or two
when I was leaving,
or was I just passing through.
atrophied heart for an inundated mind.
loquacious for all that and more.
endless treetops
tall grass dew drops
river rippling
distant night trains grinding the tracks
A howling dog, toddler shriek, drunkard lonely prattle
•
(We) Should Not Have Let That Spring Pass By
an exploration of loss and the quiet nostalgia of moments that slip away before
we truly hold them. Through images taken during the spring of 2024, the work
reflects on a life that once was, a sense of home that no longer is, and the way we
unknowingly inhabit our last times—only recognising them for what they truly
were once they have passed. Photographs and words trace shifting thoughts and
emotions across ever-changing landscapes, where spring itself mirrors such
transitions. A lost one’s hair sensing intimacy, tulips blooming on a balcony only to
be cut and fade in a vase, a dog lying, almost dissolving into darkness—a slowly
vanishing memory.
A personal memoir that speaks to something universal: how we move through life
assuming more springs will come, until one day we look back and realise that one
may have been a last.
•
•

03/23/2025

THIS HEART A STONE•
•
This
my heart
a stone
for you
captured in minerals
our time
now passed
lied down heaviness
not to be lifted
but for
erosion
a place far more distant
from now.
•
•
•
(We) Should Not Have Let That Spring Pass By
an exploration of loss and the quiet nostalgia of moments that slip away before
we truly hold them. Through images taken during the spring of 2024, the work
reflects on a life that once was, a sense of home that no longer is, and the way we
unknowingly inhabit our last times—only recognising them for what they truly
were once they have passed. Photographs and words trace shifting thoughts and
emotions across ever-changing landscapes, where spring itself mirrors such
transitions. A lost one’s hair sensing intimacy, tulips blooming on a balcony only to
be cut and fade in a vase, a dog lying, almost dissolving into darkness—a slowly
vanishing memory.
A personal memoir that speaks to something universal: how we move through life
assuming more springs will come, until one day we look back and realise that one
may have been a last.
•
•

03/14/2025

(We) Shouldn’t Have Let That Spring Pass By.
•
the black birds,
I can’t hear them no more.
Nor do I see
morning light, on the kitchen top,
in the eyes above a steaming coffee cup.
it may still be there in a town no longer mine.
On that exit road along the malls, my heart skipped a beat or two
when I was leaving, or was I just passing through.
atrophied heart for an inundated mind.
loquacious for all that and more.
endless treetops
tall grass dew drops
river rippling
distant night trains grinding the tracks
A howling dog, toddler shriek, drunkard lonely prattle
•
(We) Should Not Have Let That Spring Pass By
an exploration of loss and the quiet nostalgia of moments that slip away before
we truly hold them. Through images taken during the spring of 2024, the work
reflects on a life that once was, a sense of home that no longer is, and the way we
unknowingly inhabit our last times—only recognising them for what they truly
were once they have passed. Photographs and words trace shifting thoughts and
emotions across ever-changing landscapes, where spring itself mirrors such
transitions. A lost one’s hair sensing intimacy, tulips blooming on a balcony only to
be cut and fade in a vase, a dog lying, almost dissolving into darkness—a slowly
vanishing memory.
A personal memoir that speaks to something universal: how we move through life
assuming more springs will come, until one day we look back and realise that one
may have been a last.
•
•

03/03/2025

(We) Shouldn’t Have Let That Spring Pass By.
•
the black birds,
I can’t hear them no more.
Nor do I see
morning light, on the kitchen top,
in the eyes above a steaming coffee cup.
it may still be there in a town no longer mine.
On that exit road along the malls, my heart skipped a beat or two
when I was leaving, or was I just passing through.
atrophied heart for an inundated mind.
loquacious for all that and more.
endless treetops
tall grass dew drops
river rippling
distant night trains grinding the tracks
A howling dog, toddler shriek, drunkard lonely prattle
•
(We) Should Not Have Let That Spring Pass By
an exploration of loss and the quiet nostalgia of moments that slip away before
we truly hold them. Through images taken during the spring of 2024, the work
reflects on a life that once was, a sense of home that no longer is, and the way we
unknowingly inhabit our last times—only recognising them for what they truly
were once they have passed. Photographs and words trace shifting thoughts and
emotions across ever-changing landscapes, where spring itself mirrors such
transitions. A lost one’s hair sensing intimacy, tulips blooming on a balcony only to
be cut and fade in a vase, a dog lying, almost dissolving into darkness—a slowly
vanishing memory.
A personal memoir that speaks to something universal: how we move through life
assuming more springs will come, until one day we look back and realise that one
may have been a last.
•
•

02/27/2025

(We) Shouldn’t Have Let That Spring Pass By.
•
the black birds,
I can’t hear them no more.
Nor do I see
morning light, on the kitchen top,
in the eyes above a steaming coffee cup.
it may still be there in a town not no longer mine.
On that exit road along the malls, my heart skipped a beat or two
when I was leaving, or was I just passing through.
atrophied heart for an inundated mind.
loquacious for all that and more.
endless treetops
tall grass dew drops
river rippling
distant night trains grinding the tracks
A howling dog, toddler shriek, drunkard lonely prattle
•
(We) Should Not Have Let That Spring Pass By
an exploration of loss and the quiet nostalgia of moments that slip away before
we truly hold them. Through images taken during the spring of 2024, the work
reflects on a life that once was, a sense of home that no longer is, and the way we
unknowingly inhabit our last times—only recognising them for what they truly
were once they have passed. Photographs and words trace shifting thoughts and
emotions across ever-changing landscapes, where spring itself mirrors such
transitions. A lost one’s hair sensing intimacy, tulips blooming on a balcony only to
be cut and fade in a vase, a dog lying, almost dissolving into darkness—a slowly
vanishing memory.
A personal memoir that speaks to something universal: how we move through life
assuming more springs will come, until one day we look back and realise that one
may have been a last.
•
•

02/26/2025

(We) Shouldn’t Have Let That Spring Pass By.
•
the black birds,
I can’t hear them no more.
Nor do I see
morning light, on the kitchen top,
in the eyes above a steaming coffee cup.
it may still be there in a town not no longer mine.
On that exit road along the malls, my heart skipped a beat or two
when I was leaving, or was I just passing through.
atrophied heart for an inundated mind.
loquacious for all that and more.
endless treetops
tall grass dew drops
river rippling
distant night trains grinding the tracks
A howling dog, toddler shriek, drunkard lonely prattle
•
(We) Should Not Have Let That Spring Pass By
an exploration of loss and the quiet nostalgia of moments that slip away before
we truly hold them. Through images taken during the spring of 2024, the work
reflects on a life that once was, a sense of home that no longer is, and the way we
unknowingly inhabit our last times—only recognising them for what they truly
were once they have passed. Photographs and words trace shifting thoughts and
emotions across ever-changing landscapes, where spring itself mirrors such
transitions. A lost one’s hair sensing intimacy, tulips blooming on a balcony only to
be cut and fade in a vase, a dog lying, almost dissolving into darkness—a slowly
vanishing memory.
A personal memoir that speaks to something universal: how we move through life
assuming more springs will come, until one day we look back and realise that one
may have been a last.
•
•

01/08/2025

Kozolec, November 2024, Kranj, Slovenia. 3/3
•
Kozolec, is a permanent standing structure that services as a drying rack primarily made of wood, often although not solely used for drying hay. It is considered as one of the most powerful Slovenian national symbols. Maša and me, have visited a couple of Laibach concerts, and our last concert visit was that of Laibach in Portorož, Slovenia. Prior to our breakup I left behind a written note and a cd of Laibach, bought during that last concert.
One of the ex Laibach members, Tomaž Hostnik committed ritual su***de by hanging himself from the kozolec near his hometown, Medvode, few kilometres north from Kranj, on 21.st of December 1982. The hayrack now a symbol of closure - a moment where one’s self is undone, with the hand of another.
From dust to dust where from the dirt below anew will flourish.
•
D a r k n e s s L o v e
•

01/08/2025

Kozolec, November 2024, Kranj, Slovenia. 2/3
•
Kozolec, is a permanent standing structure that services as a drying rack primarily made of wood, often although not solely used for drying hay. It is considered as one of the most powerful Slovenian national symbols. Maša and me, have visited a couple of Laibach concerts, and our last concert visit was that of Laibach in Portorož, Slovenia. Prior to our breakup I left behind a written note and a cd of Laibach, bought during that last concert.
One of the ex Laibach members, Tomaž Hostnik committed ritual su***de by hanging himself from the kozolec near his hometown, Medvode, few kilometres north from Kranj, on 21.st of December 1982. The hayrack now a symbol of closure - a moment where one’s self is undone, with the hand of another.
From dust to dust where from the dirt below anew will flourish.
•
D a r k n e s s L o v e
•

Martijn van Mierlo Photography and Visual Arts

04/28/2025

04/12/2025

04/10/2025

04/02/2025

03/23/2025

03/14/2025

03/03/2025

02/27/2025

02/26/2025

01/08/2025

01/08/2025

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