CLOTHES LINE

My grandfather was a solitary and silent human being. He used to place behind the haste and the noise of the city to observe the poetic acts that are born in the insignificance of everyday life. 

He always told me that when his departure day arrived, he wanted my life to continue with its normal and simply course.

So when the people of the funeral home took his body, I kept the routine wich corresponded to Saturday: to change and wash the sheets of his bed. But this time when I hung them on the clothesline, I stood behind the sadness and carefully watched the work of the wind and the light.

Clothed by the presence of my grandfather I went into different landscapes of silence and loneliness…