I feel that I haven’t experiences many peculiar or strange things in high mountains. One thing would be dreams. Dreams of people who have long ago died - my father, mother, older sister. Whenever I go to the Himalayas I almost always dream of them. I wonder why.
The experience is one of sensory inundation. Fragments of sound, some familiar, some alien, drift in the ether of the audio canal, while all around one is washed by projected images, faded slide projections, flickering film reels and the humming drone of many old machines.
When I think about my own ‘horizons of experience’, I think about a number of things that have remained very strong in me and which probably continue to inform my judgements about art and the way that I create my sense of self.