Glenda Gore, The Stillness of Stilt Fishermen (CREATIVE 2025)

This image was taken on route to Galle, my travel path hugged the southern coast of Sri Lanka. To the left, the ocean shimmered—sapphire and indifferent—while coconut palms swayed inland, lazy in the heat. Then they appeared, rising from the sea like skeletal birds: the stilt fishermen. Perched on slender poles, their silhouettes seemed carved from an older world—crossbars worn smooth by decades of salt, sun, and waiting. But when stopping to capture the moment, something felt off. I approached the scene with quiet reverence, almost as if stepping into a sacred space. Yet as I watched, one of the fishermen glanced down at his phone. Another shifted his cap—not his line. There were no fish beside them, no baited hooks in motion. Just stillness. I recall a local man nearby noticed my confusion and offered a gentle shrug. “Actors now,” he said, smiling as though the words had been spoken many times before. “Tourists like the photo.” And there it was: a tableau vivant. Not deception, exactly, but performance—an echo of a tradition staged for passing eyes. The ritual had faded, but the image endured, lovingly preserved like the chipped frame of an old painting. A performance, yes—but perhaps also a kind of homage. And so, the question of how to truly capture this scene began to take shape. What emerged was not just this photograph, but an impression—my own artistic rendering of a truth that sat just beneath the surface. I alluded to long poles rising like reeds from the sea. Figures half-formed, fishermen made of mist and memory, their edges softened by time. What I saw wasn’t entirely real. But what I chose to make of it—that was.

Images have been resized for web display, which may cause some loss of image quality. Note: Original high-resolution images are used for judging.