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Pretending not to intend it, she turns a summer beach into the Vietnam War, on the exact moment before the aviation flies over. Jumping from one image to another, one hears the airplanes roar and the motors put out the children’s screams, who know about our premonition.
On that European beach of August photography does its magic, and with the filter of its imagination it attains some special effects that only exist in our intimidated minds: white, black and grey, the children cling to the ropes, throw chiffons to the wind that become rags, in flags with no cause, in screams and calls to conscience to the one that assists defenseless to a game that is not, because it oozes drama.
The danger of having a photographer grandmother…
"I come from five minutes of children in black and white that do not speak of summer, games or joy. From an unreal wire fence they evolve under a threatening sky, subjected to the storm, different from it, holding on to the ropes over treaded sand. Like all hope, they flutter a veil in the wind.
And music accompanies without leaving a hint, while the children pretend to play, and the clouds of Alberto turn the summer into winter.
Without summer, joy or play, I come from the eve before a bullfight in which everything bodes a drama in black and white.”