Don Pedrito: 1, 2, 3
Poems for her blue hair
So beautiful is the light that is bluing her hair, told Don Pedrito to me, slightly nodding his head. I came closer; his hands were full of photographs and the colors were mingling with the tender, reddish rays of the sunset. The dark was to come soon.
Every time I was going down to the city, I was taking my camera with me but I never told him anything about the passion I have for childrens faces, for houses that were falling apart, for the long legs of the girls in bloom. I was saving the photos for myself, somehow out of a fear for his kind smile, he was enveloping me with every time I was showing him some of my hidden passions.
"I know you love the photos and I know you wander on the streets, "carrying" along broken pieces of world". "How do you " I asked, a bit surprised. "From the way you look at them. From your interest in reading who and why received the Pulitzer Prize for photojournalism. From several things. Look, here are the photos I have brought for you to enjoy them". He gave me the photos and I cant even remember when he closed the door behind him. I had plunged into the slices of life.
But what can photographs be, except as you would be taking the light and you would cut from a piece of time beautiful bodies or just a certain angle of the rays. You add some of your imagination when you play with the filters: rainbow seizing a body, lines of stone lasting in the warmth of some hips, roots deserting the clay, sad eyes of a child under a Tibetan sky.
Id make a huge album with inquisitive human faces. Id love to catch the wander on their wrinkles, in the gaze of their eyes, in the hand that grabs possible answers. Or Id make another album, which would only contain the light snaking between the sand curtains of the desert wind or caressing leaves. Or
"There could be many albums", I found myself speaking in a loud voice, while I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned around. Look, here are some of those youd like to have: