Long time ago I had an idea: I thought it will be interesting to give a series of pictures to different writers at the same time. I will not explain anything about the pictures to them. They would have to write whatever the images suggest to them just with that: the images by themselves.

In this occasion I picked two great writers friends of mine since a long time ago:

  • Irene Brea Azcona: Irene Brea Azcona is a Spanish writer and philologist who I met in Cordoba (Spain) at Fundación Antonio Gala years ago…
    She used to experiment with short fiction, either as narrative or as different textual forms that were closer to poetry.
    At present, she combines her inclination for reading and writing with teaching, which she mostly does outside of Spain (Lisbon, Marseille, Alexandria …).
    With the idea that teaching, traveling and writing are all part of the same urge for self-knowledge and expansion, she recently started organizing Spanish-language creative courses and workshops that you can find here:


    She fears the moment the trigger goes puff, and smoke comes out from behind the curtain leaving us, definitively, in the dark.
  • Ines Esteban González: She became a journalist in Madrid a few years ago (an eternity if you ask a millennial). For now she writes and dreams from her home in Brooklyn.

The picture I sent them belongs to an assignment a couple did to me. They wanted a peculiar portrait of them as a couple for his mum. And I did this.

Well I’ll stop writing and let the writers speak, so here are the two different stories inspired in my pictures I hope you enjoy it:



(Relatos originales en español más abajo)

CONTRAST AND CHIAROSCURO by Irene Brea Azcona (Translated to English from the original in Spanish by Sara Murado)

He imagines that there is a deep black lake in front of him. She’s going to put the flower pot on his head.

She is going to hide the pot behind the chair. He chants a Tibetan mantra in a low voice.

She says things to his ear. He breathes in and out.

He replies that it’s all very well, tulips cannot stand the winter in Sweden.

She is going to hide the pot behind the chair, she is going to break the flower pot on his head.

Those low clouds, those monochrome skies.

He tells her that he loves her, despite everything. She’s going to break the pot on his head.

Love is beautiful. Love is cruel.

Summer has no night and winter has no day. Light without hue, marriage without light. Apartment without tulips.

Deep down you’ve never loved me, you haven’t been there in a while.

Sure, honey, tomorrow, without fail.

Although they are friends, they always have been. Deep down sex has never worked.

So what’s left for the wedding? Where are the guests?

He thinks, if he could choose, he would be a turtle, like Joao’s amulet. I’ve never seen a turtle with a pot on it.

Ha ha, nor have I seen a toad who was not a prince in disguise. Or vice versa.

He hums a Brazilian samba.

An old camera and blackness around the seeing eye, so as to better outline the objects. So that we can define our marriage better.

Tulips in Holland and muiraquitãs in Brazil.

Was that amulet shaped like a frog or turtle?

We will relive the past of our marriage.

It was a snake.

We will travel to Brazil and we will make out in a tropical landscape.

It’s a wedding photo. It was our honeymoon.

And dance and dance on a deserted beach, where the postcard orange blends with the red reef and the yellow of the pau brasil.

Nothing has changed. Everything remains. Our love is as firm as a giant sequoia. As hard as a rock at night.

It is night.

She fears the moment the trigger goes puff, and smoke comes out from behind the curtain, leaving them, definitively, in the dark

                                                                                                                                                                            Irene Brea Azcona


BAREFOOT IN THE PARK by Ines Esteban González (Translated to English from the original in Spanish by Sara Murado)

– Remember when we used to play the guessing game? I have one for you.

– Yes I remember. It’s been a while since we last played.

– Tell me, what movie am I doing?

– I don’t know…

– Look at me, please. The news are not going to disappear from the newspaper if you put it down for a moment. Does the plant suggest anything? My bare feet?

– I really do not know.

– You have not even looked at me.

– Well … Now I am looking at you and I repeat that I do not know.

– Barefoot in the Park.

– What?

– The movie is Barefoot in the Park.

– I don’t think I’ve seen it.

– Our first date in that movie theater on Second Avenue where we used to go to kiss. It’s about a newly married couple making love for days at the Plaza Hotel and then moving to their first home. Closed last year, the theater.

– Yeah, it rings a bell. They’ve opened an immense McTurkey where the theater used to be. Donovan Biever opened the new place and the line of kids waiting to get in went around the block. It is sad to see how the monstrous machinery of consumerism is devouring culture as entertainment. Turkey burgers … That shit has no flavor.

– It’s sad…

– And now what’s the matter with you?

– The turkey burger.

– Don’t tell me you want one …

– Our relationship has turned into a McTurkey turkey burger. Aseptic, with no taste or smell.

– Don’t get dramatic.

– I’m trying to pass through the small gap left by your cynicism.

– My cynicism used to turn you on before.

– You used to love me before.

– Relationships evolve into calmer, more mature landscapes.

– We live in a desert. It has nothing to do with tranquility and maturity. This room has been filled with dust and sand.

– Turkey burgers and deserts. You are full of metaphors this morning.

– You left a while ago, and I don’t know where to find you.

– Me neither.

                                                                                                                                                                    Ines Esteban González




Él imagina que hay un lago negro y profundo delante de él. Ella va a ponerle el tiesto de flores en la cabeza.

Ella va a esconder el tiesto detrás de la silla. Él canturrea un mantra tibetano en voz baja.

Ella le dice cosas al oído. Él inspira y expira.

Él responde que muy bien, los tulipanes no aguantan el invierno en Suecia.

Ella va a esconder el tiesto detrás de la silla, va a romperle el tiesto de flores en la cabeza.

Esas nubes bajas, esos cielos monocromos.

Él le dice que la quiere, pese a todo. Ella va a romperle el tiesto en la cabeza.

El amor es bonito. El amor es cruel.

En verano falta la noche y en invierno el día. Luz sin matiz, matrimonio sin luz. Apartamento sin tulipanes.

En el fondo nunca me has querido, hace tiempo que no estás ahí.

Claro, cariño, mañana mismo, sin falta.

Aunque son amigos, siempre lo han sido. En el fondo el sexo nunca ha funcionado.

Y ¿qué dejas para la boda? ¿Dónde están los invitados?

Él piensa, si pudiera elegir, sería una tortuga, como el amuleto de João. Nunca he visto una tortuga con un tiesto encima.

Ja Ja, ni yo un sapo que no fuera un príncipe disfrazado. O viceversa.

Él canturrea una samba brasileña.

Una cámara antigua y todo negro alrededor del ojo que mira, como para delinear mejor los objetos. Así nosotros definiremos mejor nuestro matrimonio.

Tulipanes en Holanda y muiraquitãs en Brasil.

Aquel amuleto,  ¿tenía forma de sapo o de tortuga?

Reviviremos el pasado de nuestro matrimonio.

Era una serpiente.

Viajaremos a Brasil y nos magrearemos en un paisaje tropical.

Es una foto de boda. Fue en nuestra luna de miel.

Y bailar y bailar en una playa desierta, donde el naranja de postal se funde con el rojo arrecife y el amarillo de la flor del pau brasil.

Nada ha cambiado. Todo permanece. Nuestro amor es tan firme como una secuoya gigante. Tan duro como una roca en la noche.

Es de noche.

Ella teme el momento en que el disparador haga puff, y el humo salga de detrás de la cortinilla dejándolos, definitivamente, a oscuras

                                                                                                                                                                            Irene Brea Azcona

DESCALZOS POR EL PARQUE por Ines Esteban González


¿Recuerdas cuando solíamos jugar a las adivinanzas? Te propongo una.

Si, recuerdo. Hace mucho tiempo desde la última vez.

Dime, ¿qué película represento?

No sé…

Mírame, por favor. Las noticias no van a desaparecer del periódico porque lo dejes un momento. ¿Te sugiere algo la planta? ¿Mis pies descalzos?

De verdad que no lo sé.

Ni siquiera me has mirado.

Bien… Ahora sí te estoy mirando y te repito que no sé.

Descalzos en el parque.  


La película es Descalzos en el parque.

Creo que no la he visto.

Nuestra primera cita en aquel cine de la Segunda Avenida al que solíamos ir a besarnos. Habla de una pareja de recién casados que hace el amor durante días en el Hotel Plaza y después se muda a su primer hogar. Cerró el año pasado; el cine.

Si, me suena. Han abierto un McTurkey inmenso donde antes estaba la sala. Donovan Biever inauguró el nuevo local y la fila de chavales esperando a entrar daba la vuelta a la manzana. Es penoso ver cómo la monstruosa maquinaria del consumismo está devorando a la cultura como forma de ocio. Hamburguesas de pavo… No sabe a nada esa mierda.

Es penoso…   

¿Y ahora que te ocurre?

La hamburguesa de pavo.

No me digas que quieres una…

Nuestra relación se ha convertido en una hamburguesa de pavo de McTurkey. Aséptica, sin sabor ni olor.

No te pongas dramática.  

Trato de colarme por la reducida brecha que me deja tu cinismo.

Antes te ponía mi cinismo.

Antes me querías.

Las relaciones evolucionan hacia paisajes más tranquilos y maduros.

Vivimos en un desierto. No tiene nada que ver con la tranquilidad y la madurez. Este salón se ha llenado de polvo y de arena.

Hamburguesas de pavo y desiertos. Esta mañana estás pletórica con las metáforas.   

Hace tiempo que te fuiste, y no se cómo encontrarte.  

Yo tampoco.                                                                                                                                                                    Ines Esteban González