Becoming stronger?

mafe roig photo blog

How is it that things take so long to get good and turn bad so fast? I guess that emotional wounds are the same as physical ones. In one minute you are fine and in the next you fall, you cut yourself and there’s blood everywhere.

Is it a fragility thing? Or maybe that is the way we become stronger. Or maybe is just about poetic beauty and wounds are the seed from which the most beautiful art forms are born. Maybe without wounds and sadness there wouldn’t be happiness, love or art.

Is it a black and white thing? Something like “we can’t appreciate good without bad”.

Or are wounds a way to intensively experience life? The way a song makes us laugh or cry. The way a smell takes us to the past. Do wounds make stars shine brighter and make a sunset turn into a work of art?
Is it true that there’s no beauty without sadness?

Market day

market la boqueria mafe roig photography

Rocío is 86 years old. Her platinum hair contrasts with the vibrant colors of fruits, juices and spices that fill every corner of the market.

She’s wearing her fancy earrings, her blue printed silk scarf and uses her shopping cart as a walking stick while browsing through the fresh, plastic-looking vegetables. Someone stumbles with her. Not a single apology. She has to wait 10 minutes to pay for a bag of tomatoes while some tourists take photos to a shinny batch of sweet peppers and pay for a coconut juice.

Trying to get to the seafood and fish corner, Rocío remembered when she was young and went to the market with her father. Every stand owner said hello and called them by their first name.

Rocío asks for some salmon and a couple of shrimps to the lady behind the counter. She tries to make her way out of the market as quietly and as fast as she can. Tomorrow she’ll go to the super next to her house. These trips to La Boquería are starting to take a toll on her.



A Hug for the Soul

mafe roig photography


– Are you happy to see me? – I asked him while tears fell down my cheeks.

– Of course – He answered with a smile. There. Just sitting there at his table, that is no longer his, eating breakfeast just like so many other mornings I went to say hello.

I grabbed his hand in both of mine still crying. Tears fought with the smile that was trying to take over but there was no apparent winner.
He seemed happy. Healthy. Like before everything happened. We stared at each other for a little while and more. Me crying, him smiling.
My tears were an unbalanced mixture of happiness and sadness. I was sad because I miss him so much, and happy to see him again. I cried because it has been a long time since he is gone, and I smiled because, once again, after so long, we met again in my dreams.
– Hi, grandpa ¿How have you been? –

One Morning



There were a lot of dreams that night. There were oceans with waves as high as skycrapers; dolphins swimming in underground rivers lighten by the light of a millions fluorescent fireflies.

There were grandparents that are are long gone, gardens that live only in memories and feelings clouded by the veil of the night. The kind that dwell dreams and fade with sunlight and reality.

You wake up with the uncertainty of present mixed with the nostalgia of the past and the fear of future.

Like when someone feels he is falling from his bed and wakes up startled, thinking that somethin happened, just to realize that he was dreaming and everything remains the same.

You look around without knowing what to think and tell yourself that you must get up. And in that very moment its only up you to decide if it will be a good day or not.

Dragging your feet across the ground, very unconvinced of going out of bed and facing the worl, you get that cup of coffee that promises to clear up the fog in your mind and open your eyes for as long as the sun shines outside.

And without even thinking it, like summer sun in the middle of winter, a little, beautiful detail peeks, makes you smile and is no longer up to you.

Its going to be a good day.

Drifting Words



It was her favourite book in the entire world. Reading it became a routine so natural it was like breathing…

She knew every word, every comma, every dot. The book was so worn that the pages were soft and fragile like the petals of a rose.

And even so the pages still had that particular and special smell that new books have.

But now this perfect story reminded her too much of that time… too well, too clear, too painful.

The book had to go, just had to. And with one tear, of it went. Right there in the place where it all began.

The Hug

Yesterday I was on the bus on my way to work. Everything was pretty much the same as every other day, except for one thing. For some reason I was more observer than other days. I was very aware of everything around me and my head was in a very creative/imaginative place.

I was really seeing and suddendly there was something that caught all of my attention.

From a window on the bus I saw this two people standing in front of a building on the sidewalk. They were hugging.

She had a long grey nitted sweater that look at least one size bigger than hers; he had an orange one. They looked like father and daughter and he was conforting her.

She was just completely sinked in his arms while he slowly passed his hand up and down through her back…up and down…up and down. He had this look in his face that made me understand he was in pain for her pain.

I dind’t get to see her face but I could notice she was really sad.

It looked like it’ll last forever, like it was an image frozen in time and space.

For me it feels like they are still there, immersed in this intimate, timeless hug.

I hope their are doing better today. And for you, who are reading this, I send you a big hug. May all of your worries go away and you find peace and quiet.

No photos today. Just a mental image of The Hug.

The weight of a hot day


The apathy that comes with a hot day is unique. With the feeling that mind and body are moving in slow motion, to our detriment, getting over the simpler of tasks can turn into a complete agony …

On days like this, the heat seems to emanate from everything …humidity steals the oxygen, and even the wind is too tired to blow…

The monumental weight of a heat, that can only remind us of life in Macondo, falls on us and we surrender to a state in which, between despair and frustration, the mind refuses to think and the body refutes, heatedly, all orders to get in motion…

The result? We are at the mercy of temperature, floating in a sticky and wet limbo, with a blank mind wondering how are we ever going to get on our feet again…

The limbs are loosened mixed with the heaviness of the air… the eyelids surrender… the thoughts get tangled … and the 40 celsius degrees win the battle…

Night of music, breeze and moonlight


I’m sitting here … well, ok … lying down, with my inseparable companion, my camera, some music and the breeze coming through the window, waiting for the Moon to peep through the clouds and grant me permission to photograph her at least one time.

A dog barks in the distance and everything is mixed with Hollie Cavanagh’s voice singing a cover of Bleeding Love from my Ipod.

Meanwhile, the Moon teases me into thinking that I will be honored with her presence. I let her tease me, close my eyes,  embrace the little breeze that comes, timidly, through my wide open window and I keep listening…

I spy the sky again and my eyes show me evidence that the clouds have won. The Moon decided to dispense of my company and my camera lens. Today there will not be pictures of the moon. Only her trail of light filtering through the clouds, mocking me.

Music, breeze and moonlight.

Deep lull moments like this are rare. You have to embrace them before they escape from you like the Moon has escaped from me tonight.