He's a vagrant explorer of unpopulated places where every now and then he finds like-minded passersby, animal or human. He insists on the freedom to be without direction, to be derelict, to be attracted to the unlovely and unploughed field or heath, where there is no refuge from the feeling of loss. Here is nature, spoiled not by industry-but by the viewer's own malaise. Koudelka's pictures of this type never make it to the status of landscape. The weather is bad.
Someone throws up a ball , in poetic ennui, and a horse lounges in the distance.