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2 min read
by Lucas Varro
There is a profound quietude in the temples of Angkor—an ancient breath that lingers in stone, moss, and morning light. When choosing how to bring these moments into the world as physical prints, I seek materials that do more than serve the image; they must honour the spirit of the place.
This is why I print my work on Hahnemühle Bamboo—a paper born not of forested pulp, but of the rapid-growing, self-renewing bamboo plant. As the world’s first fine art inkjet paper made from 90% bamboo fibres, it reflects my reverence for nature and impermanence—for beauty that leaves no wound behind.
Bamboo grows swiftly, needs little water, and requires no pesticides. It yields far more cellulose per acre than trees, yet asks less of the land. To print upon it is to collaborate with a plant that teaches resilience and generosity—less an act of consumption, more a gesture of reciprocity.
Its natural white tone—free of optical brighteners—glows with a quiet warmth: soft, muted, like temple sandstone in morning haze. Its gently textured surface cradles the photograph as a whisper cradles a prayer. Monochrome prints, in particular, find a deeper voice here: shadows breathe, mid-tones sing, and highlights drift like incense into silence.
For me, it is not enough that a print be archival—it must also feel alive. The subtle tactility of this paper gives soul to the image. It transforms a photograph into an offering.
Every print I make is the result of long, patient hours in the temples—measured not in time, but in stillness. By choosing bamboo, I extend that stillness into the material world, with a paper that honours the earth, carries the image with grace, and disappears softly into time.

20 min read
A contemplative Angkor essay on how surviving stone has shaped the way Angkor is seen — and why the vanished world of wood, water, labour, smoke, roads, bodies, weather, and devotion must be allowed to return around the temples in What the Stone Hides.

6 min read
There are moments when the world refuses to become personal. The rain falls on the day you needed sun. The illness does not pause because someone is loved. The sea does not soften because a child is afraid. And when the thing prayed against happens anyway, it can feel as if the world has abandoned us. But perhaps what has failed is not the world’s care. Perhaps what has failed is our idea of care.

15 min read
The faces of the Bayon have been called Brahma, Lokeshvara, Jayavarman VII, and Vajrasattva. This essay examines the evidence behind each theory and argues that their deepest meaning may lie in a royal-Buddhist synthesis: compassion given the scale of empire.
If this piece found something in you, you may wish to continue the journey elsewhere.
On The Lantern Chronicles, I gather writings from Angkor, myth and legend, contemplative essays, and poetry — works shaped by silence, beauty, wonder, memory, and the deeper questions that follow us through the world.
It is a place for stone and story, reflection and vow, shadow and revelation.
You would be most welcome there.