Tucked in somewhere deep into the center of the entwined streets of Valencia, Spain, there is a subtle wind being pulled over my body from one end of the room to the other. To my left, a large door opened to a terrace open to the air, closed to the eye, resting on the first floor of a six-floor aparment building. The source of the wind. To my right, and open door and long hallway that reflects light coming in through a window facing me, on the otherside of the apartment, draining out into the street. The sun is streaked down the dark, cool floors of the hallway. The other side of the building pulls the air over our bodies.
It is late afternoon, after lunch. 'Somos domesticos,' I tell him, as we put away our things in the bureau, sweep the terrace of the sand that has fallen off of our sea-soaked bodies, and listen the crying of the foreign washing machine, pulverizing the dirt out of our clothes.
This photo is from Madrid. Coloring life.
