Carlos invited us to pass. He looked, he spoke just, looked at how a photographer looks at him, looking for his imagined photo. He enrassed us the agressive splash of his white hair, as torrential as ..., I do not know maybe as the light that water Almería. The space showed the transit of the photographer who moves. Concha wore her crest to her up, she wore white silk with a sweet discretion with red carmine. The furniture of the house was covered to withstand the absence with cotton sheets, also white. Carlos moved slowly, dragging the light, perhaps to feel the dense shadow, as with which he told the chance in the fifties. The delicate voice, modulated with intelligence, exerted a certain hypnosis. Carlos got the photo of her, woman with white blouse against white sheets and red carmine, only then Carlos paid me attention. I'm already. I understood the silence of him.
I had in front of the daily tie executive, weekend photographer by pure drive in another time. The bank employee who approached the chance of free time, to tell the daily reality of its inhabitants, without artifices as he saw them, without judgments of value, only showing the dignity of their people. The solitary photographer, crossed out of tenebrist trend, Goya style, Valdés Loyal or Solana, who slaps the idyllic vision that the Franco regime wanted to project outside Spain. Lucida Puya to the Reactionarios Patrios
I went in front of an Afal paw, the other was José Maria Artero. They raised a group outside the stereotypes, with a rufturist statement, Leitmotiv defined by continuous surveys made the avant-garde peripheries, where they cook truly contemporary. Unconforme, Dissols, amalgam of different photographers joined in the fracture, with a very different way to see what was happening in Spain. Oriol Maspons, Ramón Masats, Ricardo Terré, Gabriel Aquilled, Alberto Schommer, Joan Loom ..., they were companions, travel brothers.
I had ahead of the photographer in front of the rolleiflex, ladies embedded in Trikinis making an artistic and desirable Iberian Lorza. He hunted men's hair on his chest, with pretty toast, from which he only takes on the coast of the sun, people who let themselves be done because they were other times. He enlightened the gray triston of a society that wanted to breathe differently, risking an exercise that caught believers by thought and discrepons. In the drive he discovered a little-propelled code in Spanish photography, defined by quick glances, dotted in color, millimetrically embedded at the square limit. He limited the conflict with a heterodox, educated to feel imaginations, chromatic pulsions of hypnotic beauty. Risky cuts, anti-beach photos, ironic vendetta and sublime against the right ones. Photographs, which when seeing them hanging at an exhibition, Martin Parr, asked twice if they had been truly made at the beginning of the seventies, I think Joan Fontcuberta took out from disbelief.
I had ahead of the man who stopped at the Antonio bar. Moor island, men at the door, sitting, shoesing spans, look as a woman from the threshold looking for something. Step changed to a friendlier black and white, different than that of the chance. The virgin portrayed coast, before being violated by the holiday concrete.
I had in front of the photographer who put the approach to infinity when, Indians and jeans, good, ugly and bad, gentlemen of the medievo, occupied the desert of taverns. Tiny Hollywood Stars off at the inhospitable beauty of Almería. Focus on the foreground to look for the hostile identity of inanimate ragigators. Cheap extras
Clip, I had my portrait. Carlos taught us the last photos of him with a beginner's emotion. Some unpublished, notes, made with a compact, JPG files, work copies printed on the Chinese corner. They were photographs of his own shadow here and there, perhaps thinking that a man without shadow does not exist or self convincing himself from his own existence. He pulls out the digital camera from his pocket, lights the LCD screen, passes the shell photos and shows us the latest, the ones he did before we arrived. Fucking shooting of authentic mastery. "From the card to the copy, I never play a photo after done, there is no post-production". Again in avant-garde, with photo hunger, showering street photographer boots, lets me "I will die with the photos".
Carlos Pérez Alquier walking in this Spaghetti Western Hispano who only recognizes the good ones, when they have left the city turned into legendDate Of Update: 21 September 2021, 08:52