Old Havana preserves an intense life in its streets that is hard to find these days. Most of the things that happen in this old Cuban neighborhood take place in the public space. I imagined it would be a paradise for the kind of street photography I most enjoy doing.
I walked 273 kilometers, sometimes planned, but mostly guided by pure instinct. A fully immersive experience. Going up and down 2,508 steps in the lot where I slept, sweet potatoes, pasta, tomato, bread, coffee, fruit, my food, the endless cycle. Going out very early every day in search of characters living between comedy and drama on an ever-changing, surprising stage of colors, lights and shadows, until the boundaries between my exterior and my interior were blurred.
I tried to take notes in between handshakes, laughter, touching stories, phone numbers, names. My only certainty was that at the end of the day I would come back with my pictures.
The state of my shoes seemed to scream I was integrating, though every now and then someone would whisper “cheindemoni” (change money) and remind me that I was a tourist with a camera, just passing through. I persisted in my attempt to absorb it all, but the Havana sensations went far beyond the visual. Sounds, smells, textures, temperatures. On that trip, I devoured images with my camera, almost like an addict.
One magical day, I started to hear the call: “hey, Argentinian!” and I began to recognize faces that recognized me. It was already my neighborhood. I was home.
