There is a word in Zapotec used to name someone or something disappearing — when a close friend is not close anymore, when someone stops visiting as often as they do, when things transform and change, or when someone is going blind. This word, kanitlow, means “faces are getting lost,” or “disappearing.”
I want to document the memories of our culture and images of our grandparents. When they are gone their grandchildren can look for them, as I look for my grandfather in old pictures now. This work will be a place where my community can find their grandparents in photographs — where they can not only read time, context, and body language, but also see our culture reflected in the images."
"When my grandfather passed away, I had a grant from FONCA for Young Creators, and I was working with women from my community. But I was in the midst of grief, and I talked to my mentors to tell them that my work didn’t feel honest. So, at that moment, I started photographing my grandfather’s spaces.
I took photos, for example, when I went to collect his clothes. At that point, his closet only had three shirts. I began to navigate this grief and noticed many grandparents who I felt were close to passing, like my grandfather. I knew them from the market, which was also influenced by Covid when many older adults were dying.
So, I started paying more attention to these signs of death their way of walking, and decided to photograph many of them. Several of the people I photographed have passed away in the last year."
"It started with my grandfather, but I realized it later. I took several photos when I said, ‘One day, he’ll be gone.’ They were images of his eye with cataracts, his little hand, or these things about grandparents that you can’t quite make sense of. For example, my grandfather used to fasten his shirt with a paperclip, and he wouldn’t let anyone fix it.
This new layer emerged as I got closer to these people, and through the interaction, I started to see how they transformed. It’s about their skin, the weariness in their gaze, or something quite curious happens – the spaces where they sleep become smaller. In other words, I see how they start to become smaller.
But I have only seen glimpses of this so far. When I was at the Mirar Distinto portfolio review, I ended up with two photos, and that’s a guide to what’s calling me now."
"The first photo I took without faces—which I now connect to this work—was of my grandmother. My relationship with her was a bit distant, detached. From time to time, she would come to the house to say hello to my mom, and that day she was visiting.
My mom (who always wears dresses with flowers, earrings with flowers, aprons with flowers, her room is full of flowers) had bought a hibiscus that was in bloom that day, and she asked me to take a picture of her with her hibiscus. I got the camera to take her picture: her with her hibiscus. When my grandmother was leaving, I don’t know why, I asked her, “Can I take a picture of you?” I had never taken pictures of her before, because I didn’t feel close to her. She looked at me and agreed. “But with your back turned,” I told her, “you don’t have to see me,” and she stood right next to my house, and I took that picture, at that moment.
That was long before this series. I didn’t even remember that photo, which came out of the fear of not knowing what to do with the relationship I had with her. I didn’t want to invade her. Then, looking through my archives, I found the photo, and I couldn’t believe it was identical to the photos I’m taking now. That was the first photo I took with a back turned. It’s why I’m including it, even though the picture was never intended for this series.
I lived with my great-grandparents. They were already old, and I was aware “they would die soon or someday,” I thought. I was very shy, and photography became a way of being, feeling, expressing. It was my language, a way to navigate my space and my great-grandparents’ home. I also learned visual language—or communicating without words—because my great-grandmother had a stroke and didn’t speak for seven years. But we talked all the time, even without speaking. We had a way of communicating through images.
When my great-grandfather died, it was a complicated process. I understood grief. Yes, I felt my heart was broken. For me, my grandfather Domingo is the root of this photographic series. We spent the last month of his life together. I listened to him a lot, and we talked a lot. I think older people want to talk, and I can sit and listen to them for hours, just as I did with my grandfather. Once he was gone, I would have liked to stay and listen to him for a bit longer.
He walked a lot, and I started walking a lot, with the camera. Whenever I walked, there was someone who reminded me of him. That’s how this series began. I was thinking about my grandfather. I have many pictures of him, but almost all of them are of his hands, his unbuttoned shirt, his eye, his ear. When you know someone so well, you see those little things; when you lose them, you remember those details.
In my grandfather’s case, I remember precisely how he wore his hat: a little bit on the side, not too much. For me, all those little things were what was really important to observe in him. Then, when I started looking at other elderly people, I would see what I saw in him. I would see the clothes or a little chain, and when I started talking to them, it was the blouse that her daughter sent her from the United States or the chain that his son had given him when he graduated. All those elements, put together, were speaking and saying something well beyond their faces. I didn’t need to see their eyes or faces to understand them. I wanted to show the truly ordinary.
There is a photo of a man with wooden cooking utensils. One day I was in the market, and suddenly I saw a blue jacket, like my grandfather’s. I ran after him. When I caught up with him, I said, “Oh, sorry, I mistook you for someone else,” and we sat down to talk.
That was the first Sunday, and I saw him many more Sundays. I would go to talk to him, because I could see his hands and how he played with his fingers, and they were just like my grandfather’s, just like his. I remember when taking that picture of the utensils, the hand, the silhouette, everything; I took it and began to cry. I knew it was not my grandfather, but when I saw the photo, I felt that if I removed the wooden spatulas, I would see him. It wasn’t him; it was the process of searching for him.
I no longer cry when I take pictures. There came a time when it didn’t hurt anymore, and I stopped crying. But that led me to deep conversations, especially with women. Getting close to them, talking and speaking Zapotec, showed me on another level who they were and what they knew. It had nothing to do with their eyes. Some would ask, “aren’t you going to take a photo of me from the front?” One lady asked me to take one, “for when I die so that they can put it on my coffin.” That was very intense for me.
I like to sit and listen to them, I like to go and see them, go to their spaces, go and greet them, listen to their stories. Also, I feel that it’s like tricking life. Some women have told me things I never thought they would say to me. When I listen to them, I find that although they are not from my time, we have many things in common. I look at these people who have lived, achieved, made mistakes, and I think this human part of everyone is universal.
(...) Some flowers are just for the cemetery. Some are for church, and others are for saints. Some are for godparents at a wedding, or for children, others are only for women. I started to observe all that, and I found it incredible. It was cyclical, the Flor de Niño is only used at Christmas, and on January 15th, we only have poinsettias, because we celebrate San Antonio, and the market turns red. On the Day of the Dead, we have flor de muerto, and the whole market smells of them. During Holy Week, the saints have necklaces of frangipanis, to accompany the Stations of the Cross."
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