On memory and identity...
Who´s your family? Me: I'm not sure, maybe I have no family at all. But everyone has a family, you know? Even the most solitary ones have a ´home´ at the end of the day.
Me: What do we call a family?
Madrid, 2021
Next station: Avenue of strangers, interchange with line of solitude.
Toledo, 2020
Sometimes I get caught by life itself. I'm both the observer, the insider, the one who's living.
I can´t stop thinking about memory, about all those moments we are constantly losing.
I just wanna take this moments and make them mine, let them define who I am. It's like I've always have this huge necessity of telling stories.
It doesn't matter if they are mine or not. In fact, I prefer the ones that are not about me.
A family? A home?
Home? Home?
I thought spanish was your mother language...
El castellano tiende a llorar cuando lo hablo yo. Con el inglés, supongo, no hay tanta intimidad.
Those stories… what language do they have?
Silence is always a good choice. Intimacy A quick but direct look at the other.
No tienen más palabras que el saber atrapar el momento que ya no existe. Que sube las escaleras y se va.
What's behind every story?
Lo que vemos, no? Lo que intuimos.
Escribir es tener dos enormes orejas abiertas a la vida.
How hard is to create a family album when you're not sure who's supposed to be called family.
It's easy to do a life album at least, she is always there.
Even when there's nobody around.
Family was always a strange word so it´s love or ´home´.
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