Those times past

Photos: © Pepa de Rivera / Texts: © Karin Augustin

To move to a hospital. To go only with the clothes one is wearing, to concentrate even more the expression of a practicing notary, to have blacker eyes, to demand answers.

To smile very few times but with force, to give joy and a break to the grandmother, who is a photographer to the bone.

To remain bonbon even between beds of steel, threatening tubes and excessively white sheets.

To get lost in an inhospitable world in which loneliness and pain lie in wait.

To go round corridors fleeing of a thousand viruses, to lean over fountains without losing curiosity for that unexpected and empty hospice, that a little and curly notary can interpret is for ever.

To live between walls without pretending to. In black and white and looking for a door.

To eat from plates with divisions, to share corridors and waiting with modern Lutes, to admire a small town girl who is skipping rope, rope and girl extracted from another place and time.

And that with the elegance of a little notary who knows how to carry her white robe with strings better than anyone, who marks distances without aiming to.

Who with her sole presence and even facing backwards relieves us with the certainty that we come from another world outside.

With the certainty that this one will not manage to contaminate us and that we will come out stronger and with a bundle of grandma Rivera´s pictures for a memory.