There’s something irresistibly magical about a group of morris dancers spinning through a sun-drenched English meadow, bells jingling, handkerchiefs catching the breeze, and a mysterious goat named Caprihorn watching over the scene. Hollie Fernando’s recent portrait series takes us straight into this enchanting world, and I have to say—it’s the kind of visual storytelling that makes you want to pull on a straw hat and join the revelry.
Fernando has a gift for capturing not just the movement, but the spirit of her subjects. In these midsummer portraits, the dancers aren’t just performers—they are keepers of a living, breathing tradition. The addition of Caprihorn, the goat, adds a layer of delightful absurdity and ancient symbolism. Goats have long been associated with pagan festivities, fertility, and mischief. So whether Caprihorn is a trained participant or just a very photogenic bystander, the goat becomes the perfect mascot for this folkloric affair.
What strikes me most is the sense of community. Morris dancing isn’t about perfection; it’s about participation. It’s about passing down stories through clashing sticks and stepping patterns that have echoed across centuries. Fernando’s portraits highlight the joyful, sweat-streaked faces of dancers who are deeply connected to the land and to each other. The whites of their costumes pop against the lush green of late June, and the goat stands there, almost too still, as if holding a secret from the old gods.
In an age where we scroll past polished, filtered content every second, there’s a raw, uncut beauty here. The bells are a little tarnished. The straw hats are sun-bleached. And Caprihorn looks like he’s seen a few solstices himself.
This isn’t just a portrait series—it’s an invitation. It reminds us that tradition doesn’t have to be dusty. It can be lively, weird, and wonderfully bizarre. So here’s to the morris dancers, to midsummer, and to Caprihorn: the goat who stole the spotlight and our hearts.
