Tree, Child, Book.

    More than a month ago we performed our book launch in our Peter Pan’s discovered oasis. It sounds as a lie, Doesn’t it? I don’t know how you feel it but for me it was like a thousand years ago. Actually, what was a thousand year ago is the first text I sent you and started shaping what would be our book. Our Book! Be Calm, I’m not writing you to ask for anything else, I’m gonna leave you alone, as alone as  kilometers there are between us. This that you are reading is just a excuse to thank you and remind you none word had been born without your photographies, that the final result took from my texts as much effort as your images  coming out.

    That resisting title, that tearful cover exascerbating me, those failed texts making our mood come down, those desperate calls getting us on our nerves and inciting us to remember our mothers in a harmful way. Getting lost on driving to your house and folds that don’t fit. The images order, man, the images order. Granada, Salamanca, Cádiz, Córdoba, Weymouth. The missed spine. That lovely preface. That struggling preface. Spelling errors that came and will come. They had to be twenty and just as well that they were, we would have a brochure otherwise.

    We made windmills, footworks, freezes and headspin (at least we tried). Birthdays, drunkenness, shows, Afro, Booga, Hiper, Híjar y more Soul-foolishness and thank to photographies I remember them.  We grew up, we changed (some more than others). We have matured as fruit, though some are still unripe.  Above all I am writing, you and me and an swirling idea around our heads. That idea is now on nearly 200 shelves, different homes, different owners, eyes looking at and reading, hands  holding and pointing. Our separated names by hardly two milimetres and our joined effort at last are getting dusty among Dan Brown, Cervantes, Cooking for dummies and ¡Hola! Cause we don’t care about people’s mind, about profit, just our “art for art’s sake” aim.

    It is now on my hands and it seems a dream (sometimes a nightmare). I open it and that fresh scent is released (no jokes please), reading, gazing, checking, writing, sighing. Her inner substance is dripping and it looks like mine. I’m proud of us because of what we made although it isn’t echoed out of our circle. I cannot assure but among those 200 little books, some of them will survive over us and I wish any great-greatbrandson in a hundred year time, seizes it, reads our names and says, What the hell is this?, let’s see what is written.

    My story has many crossing sites but your episode is already written by unerasable ink.

    Let's work,  juden!