cities get lost – Mexico DF, Cathedral
Clouds, stones and seconds ticking to the rhythm of a million foot steps, beating to the silence of a million souls murmuring and praying for each other.
Maybe they would be heard.
But then again.
cities get lost – Mexico DF, Cathedral
prayer – Mexico D.F.
Carrying a subconscious cross on his back, he is praying.
Next to him burns a candle of hope.
Perhaps we can share it.
waiting – Mexico D.F.
Through the bars, as crowds go by, he already is forgotten.
He goes everyday to the door of the Cathedral, maybe they will give, maybe they wont.
How many will wash their conscience today ?
How absurd and cruel can destiny be.
All I can do, is photograph him, mocking time.
passing moments – Mexico D.F.
Tme moves on, a thousand faces as well, staring straight into the eyes of survival.
His days are counted, the passerby by thinks.
So are his, I think to myself.
A thousand faces deep, where is our true sense of humanism ?
From the beginning, from the first morning, from my small bedroom door to the Cathedral of Mexico, shines the light that she has brought into my life.
Although I am standing deep into the shadow, I know that this brightness will follow me, until my last breath.
Dressed in white, full of faith, her life is only beginning as she stands high on the stairs that have so many stories to tell.
Three Photographers immortalizing the bright instant, that has inevitably already slipped into its own shadow.
From behind the scenes, the fourth one observes, captures and smiles at this moment of his own destiny.
Her silhouette standing in the doorway, in front of wrapped statues, talking to the past, her past.
As if I didn’t know.
Right after that, it started raining.
We went to an old cantina and had the best mole and beer in town.
At that moment, I knew that it was only a question of time before I became a silhouette as well.
How absurd can it be to be so convinced that one can steal anything from time.
As he slips slowly into the shadow of his life, he proudly displays his immortality.
Bathing in light and shyness, they pose for me.
It’s another Sunday, but it’s father’s day.
Where has mine gone ?
From above, she is digging for a glimpse at his soul.
I admire the scene, we walked around holding hands all day,
I am teaching, I am learning, she is learning, and the yellow circles go on and on.
Pointing at an angry sky, two towers of stone, one new and one old.
The church was built by the indigenous people.
They were forced by the Spanish Conquistadores, to take apart their own pyramids and faith.
As if it wasn’t enough cruelty, the same stones had to be used in order to build the Cathedral.
And all that, in the name of what exactly ?
As Albert Camus once wrote, “ Empires and Churches are built under the sun of death.”
Withstanding seasons, in the old Mexico City, he is selling wrestling equipment since the beginning of times.
Or so it seems.
Colors, shoes, masks, trophies from another time, memories and future dreams of fighters.
Some for life and others for ambition.
As I see my own reflection, I ask myself:
Who was, and who will be the winner ?
Is there really a winner.
He smiles at life, and life smiles right back at him.
His hands holding onto the cooling stone, he is happy with his destiny.
He has seen many winners and losers go by.
Maybe I should smile at my own destiny.
tapestry – Oaxaca mountains
Dignity, pride, faith and the infinite will to survive.
Every two months, they come walking from the hills. They pick up provisions, from a private charity.,
and see a doctor. They are the forgotten Mixes.
They walk back to their mountains with their heavy baskets.
The kindness of the indigenous people, runs through the veins of the Mexican people.
I wish we could all learn from them, that, often poverty carries virtues that could never be bought.
Ayutlag, Oaxaca Mountains.
Diabetic, arthritic as noble and silent as anyone could ever be.
He appeared on this dirt road, walking with a bag in one hand and a cane in the other.
He sat down to rest. I walked up to him, he only spoke Mixe, I asked him if I could do his portrait.
I would never get that old I thought to myself.
How many stories could this man tell me ?
If only, we both had enough time left
Still or alive, hungry or not, the beauty of childhood and innocence mixes with the injustice of selfish humanity.
How naive of me to say such a thing,
We should know better.
He is me.
I am him.
We have been each other since the beginning.