S u m m e r 2 0 1 9 : C D M X
When I visited Templo Mayor in México City, all I could think about were the layers. César pointed me to this one spot where, in a single vertical plane, I could see a slab of Tenōchtitlan (1325-1521), above it one side of the oldest cathedral in Latin America (which the conquistadors started building on top of and out of materials from Templo Mayor in 1573), and above that a hipster bar. What anthropologists have not been able to uncover about the ancient city is vast. The “now” makes itself on top of history. I looked at the layers and saw our skin cells in piles. I saw, in those material constructions, art and labor. But I also saw greed and lies and miscommunication and torment and loss and devastation. I felt one version of our human nature: we take before we look.
In 2016, I was given a B r o w n i e H a w k e y e camera. Sometimes I take it with me places.
I don't feel pressure. I take pictures of what moves me, an amateur relief from the burden of language. There is no theme. Composition is the only element I know how to think about: color and light, lines and shapes next to each other. I don't think about the kind of film I use; I can’t remember its properties by the time I click the square gray button.