Wild Violets

Wild Violets Along the mountain road Somehow it tugs to my heart A wild violet Matsuo Basho There is a murmur of images in the city Stories walking through the streets. They can be read in faces, in gestures of people. Those stories are being written again all the time. They intersect unexpectedly. And then they are gone.My gaze frames them, it perhaps even creates them . My gaze, the chaotic lights, the sounds of the city. I want my photos to tell those stories. To name them. So that is when I stop with my camera. I ask for permission to take a photo. In most cases, although one might think the opposite, people are very glad to accept. Then we start a dialogue, sometimes a short one or not so short in some cases, the person I portrait, my camera and me, or me in my camera. Or I do not know. We start a dialogue in which the camera is a character we try to forget. I am interested in having that dialogue in the image. I want it to build it. I want it to be the skeleton of the photo. I have learned the image of those people in the “ here and now” of the photos that never exists completely. Like the world. Like cities that change every time they are seen again. And surely others will learn differently when they see them and create them. Or forget them.