Photography
We were in the living room of my quarters at Suesca, in the old Hacienda where we were staying for the photo shoots. The room had an air of historical grandeur, its aged walls lined with artworks that hinted at its storied past. Andrés, somewhat shy and naturally reserved, requested to be photographed alone. Acknowledging
The tattoo, a depiction of Lucifer’s fall from the eye of God, seemed to echo the ancient wall it rested upon—a surface weathered by time, its history carved into every crack and moss-covered stone. The wall, a remnant of a Roman road leading to an Imperial Villa, had borne witness to centuries of human ambition,
We had been shooting since morning, the kind of relentless sun that leached the energy and left everyone a little sun-stunned and raw. Now, the house breathed a sigh of quiet, the garden hushed under the weight of the bruised purple and orange of the closing sky. Light was slipping away, that elusive blue hour
I often forget the plot of a book or a movie just a few months after finishing it. At least the names, the details. What sticks with me isn’t the story—it’s the way it’s told. I get pulled in by the language, the rhythm, the way the writer builds a world through tiny, careful choices.
