In Pwll, Jake Husband turns his lens toward the Eryri valleys, a landscape shaped by the hands of those who carved into its earth, extracted its stone, and built their lives in its shadow. The photos speak of labor, of hands unseen underpaid, of lives spent underground, in dark tunnels carving the very same earth they were born out of. You can see the brutality of it, the darkness of it, the weight of it in people and nature. Jagged rocks with open wounds still stand like monuments to a time when these hills were alive with movement. Dark tunnels stretch into the unknown. And the earth is in the process of sealing them shut, covering its skin.

Dark tunnels stretch into the unknown, where the moss awaits to cover all that there was. The memories, the work and the mistakes. Voices still hit stones, bouncing off the rocks, as they get trapped there forever. There is something brutal in it, something relentless. Maybe bcause land comes back to life, eventually, but people don’t. And lives spent in darkness are left in the darkness. The land may forget them. Or maybe it remembers in its own way—by taking everything back.

Husband does not just document what is left. He documents the process of forgetting. The slow erasure. The indifference. One day the land will take it all back, seal its wounds shut, and grasses will grow like they always do. Birds will follow the streams rushing to flow. Life will take this place back. And when it does, who will remember what once stood here?

Between these images, Pwll asks us to consider: What does it mean to be forgotten—like falling asleep first, slowly then incompletely?

Land has its ways of remembering people, growing flowers, filling abandoned tunnels with water.

It does not erase, but turns them into something quieter—but still there. Can we do the same?