When they reached the ash found the two lying on his side and embraced. Others seemed to want to protect and raise their hands as though they believed to hold the avalanche of lava and dust. Most just seemed to have resigned and will be rolled up on themselves, fetal, and in that position seems to mitigate any agony. They, however, were protected in that embrace.
Or maybe you just consoled him.
Y that's the image I saw in Pompeii to 13 years and eventually led me to the faculty of archeology, or so I understood it later, who knows. Because they were also other stories I came and went and now I can not remember where he got. Because I do not know how those already knew the story of Champollion and the Rosetta stone, known to Howard Carter, even kept the transfer, stone by stone, Abu Simbel, the temple that the Aswan Dam would flood and relocated 60 meters above with sufficient precision so that twice a year, the sun shine on Ra and leave the penumbra at Socar, the god of darkness.
Yet that image always Perennial: Pompeii lovers perched among the ashes, the cancer of life surprised look through the peephole but thousands of years ago. After study in depth all the ruins caused by the explosion of Vesuvius. Analyze the forum, the temple of Apollo, the bawdy, these perfectly paved sidewalks. Enjoy the fresh as well preserved, with familiar faces, perfectly Neapolitans. But none would have the power of those expressionless mannequins wrapped. A power then, almost without knowing, I always looked for and which would eventually find.
Because for a girl of only twenty years comes to town stories and books are not enough. For más que Carter y por más que Abu Simbel. Seguramente nada es suficiente para una chica de veinte años pero yo me acerqué de otros muchos modos. De ellos sólo uno tiene cabida aquí, entre tanta ceniza, piedra y ruina. Y es que si la arqueología se divide en prospección, excavación y análisis, tanto más la fotografía se divide así. Yo buscaba en imágenes todo aquello que no me daban los libros y las piedras. Para una chica de 20 años que llega de su pueblo a Barcelona en los años 60 la fotografía puede ser la entrada a todo aquello que soñó y apenas imaginó. La prospección abarcaba casi cualquier zona, la excavación se dirigía a cualquier forma de afecto y en cualquier situation. Looking at life the way that the ash had left, whether in bars, streets, in the corridors of a pension. It was a perfect voyeur hidden under coats and skirts, good girl.
And it was in the most bland I found the power of the dummy:
Of those garages were only just in the homes of the girls well. I was doing there that day and do not know. Echo and just know that caused the engine noise and smoke that accumulated. My cough. And then, above all, the old couple holding hands in the front seat of that Citroën. In my approach to stop calling them but without fervor. Saying innocently Are they right?, Are they right? Complying with the provisions but without conviction. Touching on the shoulder to the woman less as hope that as verification. And then taking the camera and photographed without ceasing. Thinking, but only slightly, if it was an accident or decision. Believing see the man move. Continuing with the photographs. Convinced that those hands clasped around a shifter was a reflection of an acceptance. And can hardly breathe, along with photographs and increasingly feeling that should help, advise, giving hands as yet the embrace of Pompeii and more pictures until the reel is finished, I can hardly breathe and the woman who perhaps had seen and then move away, run away. Breathing, and then it himself, warning.
Forty years later I'm at the movies. What I did after the archeology of Pompeii and the image in a garage is not important here. Convince me to see Titanic. I'm more interested in exploring that history. It's logical. There are two scenes from the film, however, imposed on me: one is the old couple in first class, before the flood, they decided not to leave his room to die in bed embracing. It's a real picture, shot almost 2000 on a hug that took place in 1923, even before a Citroen and hands in a garage. But long after the volcano. An image that is being crossed repeatedly throughout history. Then there is the scene of the old lady who throws the jewel of the sea, that after telling his story lies a fundamental part. The old I am. But instead of a jewel write and hide a confession about two elderly people I saw die in a garage that was not Pompeii and North seas, holding hands in something that was not an embrace and, above all, in a situation that , unlike the slopes of Vesuvius, was not inevitable. Because I remember more and more how they moved those elders. And because I think of that reporter who won the Pulitzer and the vulture on the girl and all her photos. Because really moved and probably give the same hands and the decision and everything else. Cause I just want these pictures, the power of those mannequins (but were not dummies) and so I write, and hide a confession along with a whole roll of pictures, and instead of releasing it for burial at sea over the years as discovered but not now, as if it could be of archeology something premeditated and conscious, as though burying something really could hide.
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