Marina, Febrero de 2012

Bored at the Art Opening

Ghost Line

As we drift through life, as I have for the best part of 39 years carrying a camera with me, there are memories locked away in old negatives, at the bottom of boxes, or simply lost forever because they were forgotten or given away at one time or another.
This is the case relating to this image which I took many years ago, judging by the taxi year-model, and also because the photograph has already acquired the look of old things on paper, as they become somehow important by the sheer weight of age, almost museum-like.
In any event, this image goes here and has become part of my inventory of life. I was there once, seems to be one reason to have shot an image for posterity.
I saw it and felt attracted to it, seems to be a secondary reason, both equally valid.

The Sculpture Courtyard, Le Louvre

El Abrazo Solitario

Una tarde alguna vez...

Resting in the shade

We are all transient travellers, or so it seems...

Hablando de Autorretratos

En los años de la ya lejana juventud era común adjudicarle al mal genio o a ciertos desplantes de temperamento la fórmula venida de cientos de años atrás y decir: ¨Se le salió el indio¨
Pues bien, vivimos ahora tiempos más iluminados, bien sea por la influencia de lecturas o la asiduidad de culturas a las que hemos sido expuestos a lo largo de los años.
Todo esto viene al caso ahora que observo este autorretrato tomado en el espejo de un hotelucho inolvidable en Marruecos. Entonces veo un tipo que alguna vez ocupó mi rostro y el espejo y, veo también, la cara de mi madre y mis abuelos, él blanco, de Caldas, Antioquia, y ella bien india, de Chiquinquirá, Boyacá, para más señas.
Y encuentro que explorando la imagen al meterle un adornito plumífero aparece de repente el mencionado indígena. Aquél que en nuestros años de escuela nos prohibieron explorar porque siempre fue producto de la mala leche, de la tristeza y el mal genio provenientes de tanto sufrimiento, de la pobreza, de la explotación, etc. etc. etc.
Así que ahora, al entenderme un poco más, beneficio del tiempo y la aceptación de ser lo que soy, me digo para mis adentros: Bienvenido el Indio, entra que la puerta está abierta.

Children at Play, London

El Abrigo (abriguito) extraviado

Blue Room by Yayoi Kusama, Tate Modern

Abedules en Memoria de Ansel Adams (Londres 2012)

Occupy London (Saint Paul Enmarañado)

Dos Torres Blancas y Una Negra

One Frustrated Shoe

Condemned House, Faversham Creek

The Prince Looking Inwards

Rome, Inside and Out

Whitstable Brownie Suite

Small Huts Dream of Being a Big Building

It must be said that photographing with a rudimentary piece of equipment, such as the Kodak Brownie (circa 1960) is an adventure of sorts. First there is the uncertainty of not having a light meter and then the chance one takes with a long exposure (1/40 of a second) which means a bit of a shake up most of the time since I don't carry a tripod around with me.
But then there is the beauty of the exposure, radical, quirky, unexpected. And that plastic coated lens which can render a most mundane vista into a beautiful spectacle. Sometimes magic happens when you least expect it: moody skies, heavily pregnant clouds and funny looking things resembling human beings down the landscape.
And of course as the man in pursuit of beauty hurries from place to place, he sometimes forgets to advance the film in the camera to the next frame and the end result are a bunch of things that would mean nothing to the purist but offer a fresh perspective to the eye.