I’d just want a hole in the wall so its art would be the changing sky.
I can dream designs of complex structures and shapes dressed in titanium flakes,
oriental arches with golden vaults and sultry textures of oriental splendor…
But instead I just want a hole to see the sky, and nothing, or nobody, more (-_-‘)
In Juliaca city the present and past blends into a different kind of time… The ones from the past cannot seen to the ones in the present, and inversely.
Like two different songs playing at the same time.
Rays of light breaking in flares…
When kid there was a manual translated from Japanese about photography, I had seven years old and I wouldn’t touch a camera until almost seventeen years after. Among other things the manual had a photograph of a sunstar in middle of a forest and with a lot of flare with a shaple like the flare in this photograph. It said, if I’m not wrong, that one had to be careful with lenses because bad lenses aren’t resistent to flares; and to me that was so weird because that photograph was the most beautiful I had seen until then. Of course those geometrical flares don’t exist in the reality, they have that shape because the mechanism of the iris of the lens, the most open (the smaller number) the aperture the rounder the unfocused elements, the quality of the shape of those unfocused elements is called bokeh.
Hands are quite hard to draw. I’d love to be capable to draw the hand I photographed while I was traveling: the posture, the gentle lightness. Hands are not totally solid so when they are touching surfaces the shape change a bit. Someday…
(Delicadeza means delicacy/delicatessen)
I saw this window open in a building in Juliaca city, my city, mirroring our landscape, it was so precious… the clouds in our high altitude seems to fly in a rush, not in vain we are also called the windy city, with gangsters as seen in the movies XP
Some people could think that it kills “traditions” as little homes with calamine roofs, to them I should to say that those roofs weren’t part of our traditions and are part of poverty. Instead every time I used to climb the sacred hill the sun shinning in them was so harmful to my eyes, so I hope they can belong to the past.
(But when baby in my craddle I loved the sound of the drops of the storm singing me a lullaby until fall sleep)
A peaceful night is nigh, again…