The Unexpected Mirror: When the Lens Turns Inward
The afternoon sun beats down on Barcelona with that particular September intensity - too hot for autumn, yet carrying whispers of the coming change. It's just past 2 PM, and I've spent the morning in unexpected conversation with a stranger who became, for a brief moment, anything but.
This morning after posting, I grabbed my camera and headed to Parc de la Ciutadella, chasing that golden morning light that makes everything look like a memory even as you're living it. I found a bench near the fountain and was adjusting my settings when an older man sat beside me. "Bonita cámara," he commented, and normally I might have smiled politely and shifted away - a woman's instinct in cities.
But something made me pause. Perhaps it was the gentleness in his eyes or the camera-shaped pin on his worn jacket. "Gracias," I replied, and somehow we fell into conversation.
Joaquín had been a photojournalist during Franco's regime. His stories poured out - about documenting protests in secret, about the weight of capturing history while being afraid to be seen doing so. "La cámara era mi escudo y mi espada," he said. The camera was my shield and my sword.
I've always thought of my photography as a way of connecting with the world, of getting closer to it. But Joaquín made me wonder if sometimes it's also my barrier - the thing that lets me observe without fully participating, document without fully revealing myself.
How many times have I hidden behind my viewfinder rather than engage directly? How often has the camera been my excuse to remain at a safe distance?
These questions follow me home through Barcelona's afternoon streets, past tourists seeking shade and locals who know better than to be out in this heat. The city feels different somehow - not just a backdrop for my stories but a living entity with stories of its own that I'm only beginning to hear.
Perhaps true cultural immersion begins when I lower the camera sometimes. When I become visible too.
Pensando en esto,
Sofia