Mi monton de leña ( 1999- 2015 )

(1999-2015) The story about "my woodpile" had more to do with a need to photograph the family environment made up my 11 brothers and conscience to be leaving the parental home simultaneously with my learning to take pictures disinterested what was I happening at that time: a relative detachment. Not born from a project designed and planned to portray this movement, but rather the need to photograph what was happening to me when I started compulsively take pictures and my technical training pararlelo regarding photography. AL go see contact sheets and negatives that time comenenze to see that the frames coalesced and inevitably finding, assembling a sort of story needed and a little fiction; each time revealing and watched what was there, a story that had to do with my brothers spun, he went imposing one, in the style of a poem where words are going to need more pronouncing words and the story itself. Although I never interested me the story itself, but rather the poetic fluidity of tone asked me where images more images. The whole process began to reveal that the absence and the space around us as my family generated in an active position to fill those gaps and identify myself as one of the core through the fact photograph. The history of my family is very simple but poignant: I am the fourth brother of a young family who suffered the death of our mother in a tragic accident when I was 8 years but transformed and revitalized in two years with the marriage of my father with an unmarried woman with whom he had six children more in the span of 7 years. That person gave me my first camera. Time became an obsession for me and a projected shadow that accompanies me since that time and not let go for a moment. I never understood the universe, and I will understand. But I like both. My eyes can not cross anything but there is a sense of loss in what I'm watching, or doing. Asterroriza I live, and the only escape route is the beauty and others. I can hardly understand people who do not think that the wood piled going to be burned. Since I lost my mother at age 8 everything that happens or do has to be taken away or destroyed. Build to break. In every election I know it will end up looking his departure, his break, and it hurts, a lot. Unwittingly I see in these images the tenderness of someone who does not want to lose anything but knows he will lose everything. My woodpile is not fallen wood. It´s the quest under the calm watchful eye when walking in the woods, through trails and cliffs; it’s the forecast of how much firewood will I be able to carry home without dropping or squandering it on the way. It´s the pile borne by my strength, hand-picked for the inevitable burning. It´s the chosen quest for the heat to happen. What is important is to have a pile to make it through the winter. The woodpile. The consciousness that it will be used, control´s necessary squander. Control over the cold. We all know we will burn our woodpile. The essential is to go out and find it, pile it up, wait for it, and watch it fade away without thinking in any of the previous steps.