- So... tell me about that blog of yours.
And I thought that if I had been born in the 20s, as crazy as they were, I would hardly understand. And so I told him, but with evasions, projecting my voice to the side as someone who’s talking but doesn’t want to be heard. I’m always very enthusiastic when I talk about my blog, but with my grandfather I felt slightly embarrassed. Not that I’m not proud of my blog. As a matter of fact, despite the angry comments I receive from the anonyms, heteronyms and pseudonyms that every now and then come here to remind me about the shitty blog that I have, to me, this shit, seems like the only noteworthy thing I’ve done in my whole life.
I know grandfather. This is not starting very well. Something called a blog probably doesn’t deserve much credit from you. The same goes with photographing people on the street. And photographing them merely for what they’re wearing only makes it all seem worse. But when I called you the other day, right before giving the phone to you, grandmother told me that you had gotten all emotional when you heard my voice on the radio. I didn’t know what to say. I know you were strict with my father and to be honest, it’s not easy to picture you getting all emotional. I never saw my father cry and to be completely honest, he wasn’t always gentle with me too. But in a way I admit that discipline will make a boy become a more adult man. And the truth is that I don't imagine myself an all that sweet father. Maybe I don't even want to be one. And that’s just the way it goes, isn’t it? There will always be complicated stuff between a father and a son. Being a grandson will always be easier.
You know, these people I photograph, are always people worth looking at a second time. I look at them once, as a reflex I look at them one second time and only then do I approach them. Sometimes the process is so quick and unconscious that I don't even realize it. I also know that everything would seem more legitimate if the reasons that make me look one second time were the curves of a woman or a piece of uncovered flesh instead of a coat, some boots or a hat. I’m going to tell you what this text is all about. About the need I feel to explain you my sensitivity. And telling you that my sensitivity is also part of my manhood. But I only feel that I must do this with you. As if you were the only man to whom I hadn’t proven myself as a man. Because deep down we feel the need to prove ourselves to our ancestors. Every time you see me you ask me about women and every time I see you I give you vague manly answers. And truth be told, it was with you that I was ever close to having the “the birds and the bees” conversation. That embarrassing conversation that my father was gentle enough to excuse me of. If this makes you more comfortable, then I must tell you that when I look at the past I realize that sensitivity and lust were always tied in my life. The best fucks were always the ones where the dirty words seemed the most tender, where the moments when I hold a woman in my arms after the orgasm always felt as good as those divine two seconds that precede ejaculation. I suspect that nowadays a man has to be as efficient nurturing a woman as he is fucking her. He has to be voluntarily as supportive as he is defending her and as dedicated in loving her as he is in protecting her. I know that for you it is very important to have a manly grandson. In my own way I guess I am one and without pretending to fulfill someone else’s image, but I confess that I would like you to have that image of me. I don’t imagine myself demanding this from a son or grandson, but what I demand one day from them doesn’t have to be the exact same thing that I demand from myself. And what I demand from me is to impress you. After my father, I want to impress you. More than women, friends or readers in a blog, it's you, grandfather. I want to impress you