The distant images from Cant a la mímica, the book we published with Leopold Samsó a good 40
years ago, have not only remained in memory but continue to persist over time, as nothing has been
interrupted. The energetic DNA remains the same, only fueled by a faithful and persistent
collaboration throughout this interval. And we can speak of an interval because the same performer
and the same photographer are now publishing, once again in black and white, this new work:
Cuevas del alma (The inner caves of the soul).
Unlike the first book, where the snapshots immortalized moments of expression in front of an
audience, these images are studio-only. The communication between performer and photographer is
pure and specific. No one was allowed to be present during the sessions that we conducted over two
long years in an ancient 9th-century fortress, where historical memories remain intact.
In this construction of oak and stone, we worked solely with the nuances of natural light, which,
filtering through the windows, allowed us to calibrate the intensity to illuminate the expressions that
surfaced from the depths of the soul in deep communion.
In the long silences that enveloped these artistic encounters, the climactic point found its being in
the subtle click of the shutter. In those moments, the soul’s journey in revealing its secrets was
rewarded by the affirmation that immortalized the apex of the emotion that had been drained from
the sediment of existence.
A delicate selection of over sixty images, joined by the thoughts that give them meaning and
shape the essence of the book.
Life blossomed in its purest essence,
in every second of perception
the world was recreated, imperturbable love.
I received gazes, smiles, caresses and hugs.
I accuse, truly, I accuse.
We will have to start over from scratch.
Mastering feelings and emotions
with the distance of profound detachment.
The Telluric Prince will arrive;
pride, envy, and greed swept away into eternal fire.
That is the great hope.
So, I would take refuge
in copious and endless meals
and thus not have to worry
about anything more than
the next flavor that would overwhelm me.
I felt satisfied,
but I couldn’t calm my mind.
I was passionate, whether I believed or not
in emotions that shape
the hollows of stubbornness.
Dodging the numbing caresses,
vanities of this world,
harassed but not sunk.
Vigilant in the face of setbacks
attentive to the cracks in the walls
through which inspiration would continue to flow.
In a permanent state of attention,
where the cells of the body
rest eager to take action.
No, I wasn’t going to give up
knowing that I was the depositary of a testimony
that the general current of the river
did not want to hear.
Perhaps a goblin awaits me at the end of the road.