It all began with a hand that came into a picture frame. Until then my pictures of breakfast were always the same: I would shoot them from above, a cup of tea or coffee, a little plate, some fresh fruit, a yoghurt, sometimes a slice of a homely cake. I would stand perched on a chair and I would snap my picture in the soft morning light. I would enjoy my breakfast alone, sometimes in silence, reading a book or more often already checking emails demanding an answer.
Living in the countryside influenced my perception of holiday breakfast, too. It would be slower, I would savour the calm hours, stretched in a corner of sunshine as a cat, but on my table there would be almost the same unchanged elements: a toast with jam, a cappuccino if dad was around, perhaps an orange juice. But the picture was always the same.
Then a hand entered the frame.