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"Siempre que estemos vivos nos veremos
"As long as we're alive, we'll see each other".
That was the last thing Yair said to me. We were onthe azotea (roof) of Block 11; fog shrouded Caracas, and the city’s frenzied hum sounded like a funeral dirge. It was like a bullet to the heart. The awareness of one’s own end had something both terrible and sublime about it. Everything had been said. The urgency of life, the fascination with death, the collapse of the country.
The extreme violence and absurdity of the situation made it seem as though life were nothing more than a game. I remembered the gallina (cockfighting arena) from two days earlier. The smell of blood mixed with rum and sweat, the screams of rage, the excitement of every man. An intangible frenzy intoxicated the arena. As if we were all mad. As if blood, death, and power made us feel more alive.
The chaotic energy of the city resonated in every fight like a dance that unfolds, lingers, and weeps helplessly.
A month later, Yair was shot and killed. He was 27 years old.
My travels through Latin America were punctuated by other striking encounters. Like those fighting cocks, I saw people dancing and clinging to chaos. Each time, I encountered that same defiant sensuality—like a furious provocation, like the cry of a teenager amused by danger, doomed yet free.
Published by Lamaindonne, 2022
18 cm 24 cm, 120 pages, in very good condition
ISBN
"Siempre que estemos vivos nos veremos
"As long as we're alive, we'll see each other".
That was the last thing Yair said to me. We were onthe azotea (roof) of Block 11; fog shrouded Caracas, and the city’s frenzied hum sounded like a funeral dirge. It was like a bullet to the heart. The awareness of one’s own end had something both terrible and sublime about it. Everything had been said. The urgency of life, the fascination with death, the collapse of the country.
The extreme violence and absurdity of the situation made it seem as though life were nothing more than a game. I remembered the gallina (cockfighting arena) from two days earlier. The smell of blood mixed with rum and sweat, the screams of rage, the excitement of every man. An intangible frenzy intoxicated the arena. As if we were all mad. As if blood, death, and power made us feel more alive.
The chaotic energy of the city resonated in every fight like a dance that unfolds, lingers, and weeps helplessly.
A month later, Yair was shot and killed. He was 27 years old.
My travels through Latin America were punctuated by other striking encounters. Like those fighting cocks, I saw people dancing and clinging to chaos. Each time, I encountered that same defiant sensuality—like a furious provocation, like the cry of a teenager amused by danger, doomed yet free.
Published by Lamaindonne, 2022
18 cm 24 cm, 120 pages, in very good condition
ISBN
