Eugenio Recuenco

On my end everyone's asleep by now - the man, the dog, the street.. But I am restless. Emotional, too, I keep wanting to cry, but keep feeling so good at the same time. I am fairly sure in certain circles that's a fine sign of going mad, but in mine, it's the natural state of being. But I hate being idle. I hate being poor. Above all, I hate this idea that I am not meant to be any more outstanding, because I am afraid of losing what I have. It's a strange feeling. I'm suspecting I hate it.

I came across a portfolio of some topmost photographer - the kind that pushes the boundaries of  perfection in a photograph - as an art form - but the kind I don't really want to be. I like lyrical, bright, gentile and the sort of portraits that feel like the first thing you see on a foggy morning when you step outside a forest house, not like something that's more a painting than a photo and it hits like a ton of bricks o the brain.  I'll see if I can find his early works, when light was still something he had to chase as opposed to the old lion he now keeps in a cage. I am impressed by the sheer amount of photos on his website, though. Many have just a hundred or even less.. At least it shows he's madly in love with this medium, but he does strike me as an impossibly difficult person to be around of - and I fundamentally don't want that. 

I don't want to be poor, but even less do I want to be alone..

These are not the kind of shots you take when you are young and just starting out. Nobody would like them. They would be a testament to a decayed and corrupted soul, of someone who's already giving up on beauty. For a seasoned retina, however, they are majestic. I suppose, for someone who has to keep up the pretext of being misunderstood, they are just the right heft amount of legacy.