MY RAGGEDY FRIEND
Anyway … what can I asy about Roque? …
The little bear he hugged me every night in the crib to sleep. He underwent several aesthetic metamorphoses, but he was still Roque. He did not talk, and I did not either, so it all came down to hugs and jerks of the ears.
One day, after the years, Roque was dusty and went to the drum of a washing machine that turned and turned without compassion. Without considering the value of its load for very program for delicate garments that it had. That day Roque died. It was already inert but this was like a savage execution, of course involuntary. His seams did not resist and a variety of viscera in the form of pieces of foam rubber sprouted from his little body already surrendered to the years, deflated, emaciated. The muzzle released … Roque died.
Already with the photographic passion prowling my life, my goodbye was to immortalize that moment after which I would never see Roque again, who foolishly slipped into several exhibitions of which I made.
It is always a tender thing to remember your first rag friend.
Madrid, May 1994.
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