WHERE MY HANDS LAND & MY FEET WANDER

Apr 7
5 min read

Updated: May 11

By Dagmar — little moments I never want to forget

It Started Long Before the Photos

If I’m being honest with you, this little “thing” of mine didn’t start with a camera in my hand.

It started long before that, when I was little, when the world felt big and new, and everything seemed to ask to be touched.

I didn’t just look at things. I needed to feel them.

Textures fascinated me in a way I couldn’t explain back then, and if I’m honest… I still can’t fully explain it now. Fabric, wood, stone, anything with character or softness or age, I was drawn to it without thinking twice.

And sometimes… without thinking at all.

Dagmar's hand on mosaic Gaudi
Cowboy boots on brick road
Dagmar's hand on cast iron door Barcelona
Dagmar's feet on forrest path
Dagmar's hand on old wooden beam in Pals
Dagmar's feet at plaque on Pioneers Square

There is one moment my dad will probably never forget (and might still be recovering from).

I must have been around four years old. We were sitting in church, everything quiet, everything still, and right in front of us sat a lady wearing the most irresistible fur hat you could imagine. Back then, wearing fur was something you saw everywhere, something that felt completely normal in those days.

Soft. Fluffy. Completely impossible to ignore.

And there I was… slowly reaching forward, gently touching it, stroking it, then again, and again, completely mesmerised by how it felt between my fingers, as if this was the most normal thing in the world.

My dad, of course, was mortified.

I, on the other hand, was simply committed to the experience.

Because to me, it wasn’t about the person wearing the hat, it was about the texture. The feeling. The quiet wonder of it.

Safe to say… not everyone experienced it the same way.

A Habit That Never Really Left

Some things you grow out of.

And some things quietly grow with you.

This need to touch, to feel, to connect through texture, it never really left me. It simply found a softer, more subtle way of showing up in my life.

And somewhere along the way, it met my love for capturing moments.

You’ve probably seen it before, my feet finding their place wherever I go. On stone, on sand, on old wooden floors that tell their own quiet stories. Always grounded, always present, always marking a moment that felt worth keeping. And here you see some more of the places I've left some footprints.

Dagmar's feet in Sandels
Dagmar's hand on graffiti
Dagmar's feet in Australia
Dagmar's hand on rusty table
Dagmar's feet on mosaic pool in Sydney
Dagmar's hand on door handle

But my hands… they might be the real storytellers.

They still reach out, just like they did back then, only now, with a little more awareness (and hopefully fewer shocked looks from strangers).

The Way I Move Through the World

When I walk into a place, I don’t rush through it. I let it unfold slowly, allowing my surroundings to guide me in the most natural way.

My feet settle somewhere that feels right before I even realise it. They pause on warm stone, on cobbled streets, on wooden floors softened by time and footsteps before mine.

And almost always, my hand follows.

It rests on an old door, not just to touch it, but to feel the years it has carried.

It glides over a table that has lived a full life, marked by moments I will never know, yet somehow sense.

Dagmar's hand on old door
Dagmar's feet on tile floor
Dagmar's hand on old door
Dagmar's feet on floor in Castle
Dagmar's hand on old stone in church
Dagmar's feet on old cobble road

It presses gently against cool stone walls, steady and grounding, as if they have nothing to prove.

It’s never rushed. It’s never forced.

It’s simply… a quiet connection.

The Things That Quietly Call Me Over

Rather than searching for something specific, I notice that certain details seem to find me, gently pulling me out of my steps and into a moment of pause.

It might be the way light falls across a worn doorway, softening every crack and layer of paint. Or a table placed just outside a café, marked by time and sunlight, as if it has been waiting there for years, holding stories in silence. Sometimes it’s a stone wall, uneven and imperfect, catching my eye not because it stands out, but because it feels grounded and real.

Some places don’t just pass through, they stay.

I feel it when my hand rests against the Palau de les Arts Reina Sofía in Valencia, its smooth curves so different, yet just as touching. And even more at the Sydney Opera House, a place that, no matter how far away, always makes me feel at home.

There is something about it… something I can’t quite explain, but always recognize.

Dagmar's hand on the Palau
Dagmar's feet in Valencia
Dagmar's hand on The Opera House Sydney
Dagmar's feet on Whidbey Island
Dagmar's hand on tiles
Dagmar's feet in Gig Harbor

There is often no reason, no clear explanation, just a quiet sense of this is worth stopping for.

And before I even realise it, I’ve stepped closer. My feet have settled, my hand has reached out, and I’m in that familiar space again where time softens for just a second.

Not because I was looking for it…

but because it found me.

A Slightly Better-Controlled Version of Me

I like to think I’ve learned a little restraint over the years.

I no longer randomly touch people’s clothing in quiet places…(at least, not without a very good reason or their consent).

But that same curiosity, that same pull toward texture and feeling, is still very much alive.

Only now, it shows up in these small, gentle moments I capture, moments that may seem simple, but hold so much more than what you see at first glance.

Dagmar's hand on old door
Dagmar's feet on Portugees tiles
Dagmar's hand on mosaic table
Dagmar's feet in cowboy boots
Dagmar's hand on old door
Dagmar's hand in garden boots

More Than Just What You See

Every image I share with you carries a feeling.

The warmth of the sun on stone beneath my feet.

The softness or roughness beneath my fingertips.

The quiet pause that made me stop in the first place.

When I look back at them, I don’t just see where I was, I feel it again. As if the moment never really left, but simply settled into memory, waiting to be revisited.

And somehow, I hope you feel a little bit of that too.

Dagmar's hand on blue shutters
Dagmar's feet on old stone
Dagmar's hand on blue door
Dagmar's hand on mosaic Gaudi
Dagmar & Michels feet in Barcelona
Dagmar's hand on barnacles

Why I Still Do It

In the end, I think this has never really been about photography.

It’s about connection.

About allowing myself to experience a place fully, not just through my eyes, but through touch, through presence, through those small pauses that turn ordinary moments into something meaningful.

It’s about not rushing past what could be felt.