Some people seem to be just a space of resonance. The aimless, dismal and wild stallions of Ennui. The camera is drawn to them as to the void. There’s music surrounding the dreamy and self- absorbed dance, but as it touches the skin, the thoroughly sculpted hair, it blows up into quiet pieces and the atmosphere resembles the delirious, hot and touch-needy effect of doing ecstasy. I move around, holding the camera with a quavering hand and a tall glass of spirits in the other one. I need to go to the rest room, but it’s crowded with gothic girls making over their makeups, dudes in amorous dalliance against the walls or snorting coke like crazy. The three endeavors are done with bizarre nerve and sinew, so I decide to wait, acting considerate and discreet as always, if holding the need to pee, a glass and a camera at the same time can be considered considerate and discreet at all. The scenario is stirring, and arousing, the guy with the white rolled up sleeves is now smoking a cigarette, but he has not stopped dancing to light it and the sparkles spread through the solid air. If I didn’t give up smoking, I would ask him for one, or to share it with me, but I prefer watching the trance from the edges than letting myself drown in evanescence to the hilt.

She had a deep longing for someone who didn’t want to change her habits, thoughts or looks. She was done with an authoritarian father, bossy lovers, macho managers and contemptuous therapists.
After a decade of serial dating, she picked up the phone and officially became a regular escort client.
At some point as grown up, a woman may find great relief in the integrity of her bliss, and stop asking for permission or absolution for what she really wants.
Most of her girlfriends are jealous and they comment upon her behavior when she’s not present.
She is not that old to pay for company, and she is sexy, more than the average. Why should she get a gigolo, then?
There’s a certain body language indicative of discomfort or boredom in a man.
I’m a photographer. My job is to read other’s minds through their gestures.
Believe me. The guy was at home with her.
She sucked on a chupachups while paying absorbed attention to the races.
He was leaning his chest on her back, softly holding her hips.
I imagined that perfect red manicure running on his chiseled rear delts or pecs.
The portrait of perfect love.

It’s not their struggle for belonging, equality, social evenness and self esteem.
It’s our pitiful failure to take a warm look skin deep enough to realize that our crooked, freakish and gargoylish self image is coming back to get us.
Such a sad circus, such Grand Guignol only for us, the blind and the deaf.
Such a display of desperation carefully hidden under loads of makeup and silicone, only for us, who won’t dare to see.