It all started with this photo — apparently a blue Chevrolet Impala and two signs in the same colour. If I show you the original shot, there was also a man on the right wearing a blue T-shirt… but I had to leave him out.
The reason, obviously, you’ll understand if you pause—just for a second—to imagine it. The man added nothing.
What I’m trying to do with these photos is highlight that blue detail that catches your eye—if you’re walking while thinking in blue—because that Impala planted the blue infection in your mind.
😅
After all, it’s about what I want to see. And this is making me genuinely question whether I’ve seen anything at all… I still carry these photos with me, and I’m not sure if what I see is blue—at least not in the sense that the colour stands out.
I remember that when I looked towards that corner, I also felt a powerful blue happiness—because they’d finally cleared away all the rubbish. I’d been walking past it for weeks, and the flies were no longer black… you can imagine what colour they’d turned. No need for me to dwell on that.
Havana’s blue ends up clinging to everything—what’s known and what’s yet to be discovered. Just look at that sky.
This photo was planned in a split second, just as the bicitaxi driver passed by me… luckily, I had the camera ready, with the right settings.
His sweat was probably blue at some point too.
Tell me what you see.
The 11/11 portal is approaching, and my dreams are growing ever more vivid. Chains can only be broken by will… life needn’t be an eternal martyrdom.
We can also wait while watching life go by, from a blue chair… or what’s left of it.
You know? Photography shouldn’t be about impressing others—it should be about getting to know oneself. Because photography doesn’t hold reality in place, not as we think reality is… yes, I know, that’s another thread in the great tapestry—but still, what I mean is that an image is full of subjectivities. We’re witnesses to moments so elusive.
Let me tell you a story: when Louis Daguerre took that photograph in 1838 of a busy Parisian street, only one man appeared in the frame—his leg propped against a wall or something like that… anyone might question the truth of that image, unless they know the background that in those days, exposure times were so incredibly long that people in motion simply didn’t register.
What do we leave out of a frame? What do we include? That’s part of our own story—the gaze we carry with us that day as witnesses—but also of countless other things that happen, unannounced.
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Every image I include in my posts is mine. When it’s not, I credit the source in a caption.
