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When the heat becomes unbearable or when our stomachs start clamoring for food, we have a bite to eat. We talk about the moments encountered, the intrinsic beauty of recognizing them, and the daring task of trying to capture some. At times, we even try to speculate whether or not we have a good picture.
We love the warmth of the people, the magical mystery of this incredible city. Mike keeps repeating how happy he feels to be here, with me, to have left all his worries behind, even if only for two weeks.
Camagüey, April 3rd, 1998
Sometimes I’m asked when I’ll be finishing my work in Cuba. Usually, I don’t know what to answer, or I simply reply that it is a work in progress. The only thing certain is that I’ll continue to photograph, to roam the island in no specific direction, simply driven by my irrational instinct.
All I know is that I want to probe the historical process Cuba is going through. I want to live and document what’s left of the Special Period, although this could turn out to be a very difficult or impossible task. I’m not in a rush. For the last six years, I’ve immersed my whole being into this reality. It doesn’t matter when I come to the surface again.
My life is becoming more deeply intertwined with that of the island. My marriage, the baby on the way, will create an even more intimate relationship with Cuba. I feel that my hands and feet are tightly bound. It’s a feeling that provokes in me a sense of both happiness and uncertainty.
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