Once I visited a town, a northern town, where old brick houses could tell many horror stories of desperation.
One of them caught my eye. By the window I saw a figure through the white curtains. She was staring out, completely frozen, her gaze fixed on the children playing with a football in the street. I stopped looking for a fragment of a second as the football almost hit me, and when I stared back, the window was empty, just the white curtains retaining the smallest of movement as the figure left.
My job kept me occupied most of the time, but I tried to visit that window a few times a week, then everyday, and as I grew obsessed with the figure I couldn’t help to scape work to visit The Window. I was supposed to stay in that northern city for a couple of weeks, but I kept postponing my return, I just wanted to see the figure, the mysterious woman I saw everyday, always staring out The Window, inexpressive, through the curtains, hoping she would look at me at last.
Finally she looked back. She looked back!!! Her dark eyes focused on me as a smile run through her face, I felt a shiver as she smiled more and more, her pale hand touching the glass of The Window, her gaze upon me kept me frozen at the other side of the street. I even remember hearing an eerie piano music coming out of that brick house before it turned into a whistle, a high pitch that finally made me collapsed.
The next thing I remember is the bright light of what seemed a hospital, and me asking as from the most remote of places where was the woman I saw. “No one has lived there in the last century” I heard. But I knew I saw her, I saw her by The Window.
In Paris there is a neighbourhood that scapes time, there is a heart that is pounding silently, a secret voyeur of the city from its hill. A place that has lived many lives and has been a witness of wonderful art.
And in a small square of this oasis, a few blue lights and a beautiful window.
What do windows have that I love so much?
A silent gentleman in a boutique shop.
For some time now I’ve noticed that I’m quite obsessed with windows… there’s not even a single trip where I don’t make a photograph of a window.
Of course, I knew it, it’s just I’d never truly thought about it until recently…
Anyways, these are from Bordeaux:
What could be on the other side of that window? A room full of books, maybe? A big table with mismatched chairs, all of them with a story behind: one bought in Taiwan, another rescued from its imminent fate as litter, the red one was a present of an ex-boyfriend, still friends although everything changed. Maybe there’s a little space dedicated to take tea everyday at the same time, while looking out the window, while thinking about life and crazy ideas about love. In the corner, is it perhaps the favourite spot of a cat named Kite?
What indeed could be on the other side of the window of Rue Notre-Dame?
¿Qué puede haber al otro lado de esa ventana? ¿Una habitación repleta de libros, quizá? Una mesa con sillas desparejadas, todas ellas con una historia detrás: una comprada en Taiwan, otra rescatada de su inminente destino como basura, la roja fue un regalo de un ex-novio, aún son amigos a pesar de que todo cambió. Quizá hay un pequeño espacio dedicado a tomar el té cada día a la misma hora, mientras mira por la ventana, mientras piensa sobre la vida y locas ideas sobre el amor. En la esquina, ¿es quizá el rincón favorito de un gato llamado Kite?
¿Qué puede haber al otro lado de la ventana de la Rue Notre-Dame?
I think I need a map to try to find myself again. Lately, I see my photographs all equal, with no special touch, just dull and boring. This is one of the few that may be saved from the sifting.
Creo que necesito un mapa para intentar volver a encontrarme. Últimamente veo mis fotos todas iguales, sin nada especial, sosas y aburridas. Ésta es una de las pocas que se salva de la criba.
My favourite view of London: from the Tate Modern café.
Mi vista favorita de Londres: desde la cafetería de la Tate Modern.