I spend so much of my time writing. Yet I don’t think I have any photos of myself actually doing it. So the one above is rare indeed. I was on a writing retreat in Spain, in the hills above Aracena. I took this photo as I wanted to work out the self-timer on my new camera. My first effort failed, hence the photo of the empty chair below.
They make an interesting couple. I wonder what I was writing at the time. I looked very focused in that first photo. But perhaps I was just pretending. And look at the second one: an empty chair; an empty pair of shoes. They speak of absence.
The day before, in a cafe in Seville, I took the photo below. An old man dressed head to toe in white linen, wearing a bright yellow hat. He kept a pair of silver pince-nez in a silver box. He read the day’s newspaper intently.
I went to the same cafe the next morning, before meeting friends for lunch and taking a taxi into the hills. He was there again, in the same clothes, reading the newspaper.
I wonder now, was he reading the same newspaper as when I first saw him? It would make an interesting story. The man who reads the same piece of news, every morning of his life. Why would he do that?