The odd pairing of Forsyth and Holtkamp return to The Island, and like shipwrecked survivors, the two must find a compromising middle ground. No lines drawn in the sand, no hoarding of supplies and certainly no longer can they live isolated. And it’s a strange odd coupling, as it was the first time. Rather than combine assets into a hodgepodge of collaboration, each yields to the other’s strength. A track will be a million terrabytes of data flowing uncontrollably; information too fast to catch all of its deeper meanings lost adrift at sea. The next will be a leisurely respite, embracing the new solitude of island life. Whether it’s sustainable in the long term is undetermined. In short doses, The Island feels like a sturdy bridge between Forsyth and Holtkamp’s genre gaps. But when you clear out your eyes and have only blue ocean and bleached sand to sterilize your viewpoint, it becomes clear that such a gap is but a mirage. And just maybe, so is this blissful isolation of The Island. So I’ll keep my eyes closed, and sip on what I imagine is coconut water, and bask in the beauty of this collab for as long as I can.
More about: Chris Forsyth, Koen Holtkamp
