Todd Hido

You can't actually see the snow falling, not as snow, but you can see what it does to the light, which comes to the same thing. There's a smear of sun high on the right, fighting its way through, and around it the whole frame has gone the colour of weak tea left too long in the cup — amber, granular, the air itself apparently made of suspended particles. I kept wanting to wipe the picture clean, the way you'd wipe a fogged window, before realising the fog is the point and the window is somewhere behind me, in the car Hido drives for hours alone on roads like this.

The two little structures down on the right — fishing huts, by the look of them, or whatever you call the sheds men put up at the edge of cold water — are doing almost nothing, and that's their whole job. They give the eye a place to land after all that drift. Below them a thread of sea catches the sun and turns briefly to pewter, and there, just at the bottom, a single snow-capped rock sits on the shore like a full stop someone forgot to delete.

This is from "The End Sends Advance Warning," the series where Hido pushed the windshield-and-weather method he'd been refining since the House Hunting nocturnes out past the American suburb — to Arctic fjords, Bering edges, places the title makes sound more ominous than the pictures feel. Because the strange thing, standing in front of one, is how unfrightening the end looks. Mostly it looks like a lot of weather and a faint, stubborn light declining to go out. I find that more consoling than I'd like to admit.