The lamp at Memo's

Lilo completely absorbed by the glint of a light bulb has what can be easily described as the spellbound look. Her air of benign self-absorption lends the image an atmosphere of serenity. The lamp adds to the charm of this portrait by being low and subtle. Her downcast gaze makes her look as if she were listening to something special from a voice somewhere in the corner of the image. The whole ensemble could neatly fit into a scene from a 1950's Mexican melodrama.
A set-piece reminiscent of sculpture. Or painting, or both.

Cali, 1996

Margaret, Quebec City 1974

This is what I wrote five years ago in this blog:

 Quebec City, my first camera and first wife. A small room in a provincial town with wonderful light streaming in from the outside. One never thought of preserving memory, it was all about photographing, not keeping records. But in the end that's what happens. It is a record kept for thirty odd years, of a time nexorably lost.
I must be thankful for the negatives so well preserved. There would be no memory without them.
I must confess, on the other hand, that, having given the image a tinted look it makes it speak of another era, and it can only mean that my mental association with the place evoke visuals bathed on that ineffable sepia glow...

This is what I wrote today:

 Five years ago, going through my old prints, I found this image of my first wife, Margaret Thurlow. It recalled pointedly those early years of my life as an immigrant in Canada, my first attempts at being a man in love with photography and the very first vacation that I had taken as an adult. It was a wonderful time, with wife on board and the fantasy at hand to do whatever came to mind while free of duties and a camera nearby.
A few months ago I received the sad news that Margaret had passed away, in Santa Cruz, California, and of course the dark clouds of reality started to gather over my head. Age and the diminishing probabilities to do what needs to be done before our turn at the head of the queue all came cascading forth. So it goes.
These few sentences and the accompanying nude portrait should suffice to pay homage to the  woman who taught me photography and was a very good human being all of her life.

Indigenous Musician

These men came from the mountains in search of redress, and a plot of land, promised by the government of Belisario Betancur, in Colombia in 1983. They celebrated by playing mournful music (isn't all Andean music thus?); and danced in gentle swirling ways, and swayed to the tunes of their flutes and their drums.
Silvia, Cauca, Colombia.

Los labios de Madame

These lips have not changed in thirty years...or, have they?
Why is the passage of time so perverse, so inflexible, against our physical being; and, come to think of it, is it possible that all that will be left of a wonderful passion could be a meager black and white photograph?
Toronto 1976

La Pupila de Laura

This could be a self-portrait. If one wants to stretch it a bit. It is, it could be argued, since it reflects a human figure trying not to be overlooked by the bright surface of the eye. The eye becomes the camera. The camera is unflinching.
Laura's eye succeeds in capturing what's being reflected upon its shiny surface, the harsh light in the patio, and the photographer's outline, on a sunny afternoon.
Cali, sometime in 1979.

Jorge Lozano, 1976

Jorge Lozano es mi hermano de toda la vida. Una noche de ausencia y largas copas decidí enviar esta carta a sus padres, acompañada de un retrato tomado durante mis primeros años en Toronto.

Nadador de los Andes

I must now regress and admit that the aspect of this man that most attracted me was the eagle in his chest, etched crudely in mid-flight, with its unfinished feathers dangling in disarray. He was visiting his family shortly before going back to Queens, NY; to the grind.
He seems to have acquired wings that combine the mountains in the background and a nearby roof. The descending fog from the gorge gives the image a surreal hint. The wings make him look like an andean angel, despite the Emiliano Zapata moustache. The mountain opens up into a gentle slope and becomes a street, a few hundred yards further down.