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Even a mare horse is a kind of man

Even a mare horse is a kind of man.
(Light in August, William Faulkner)

In the street opposite me I notice a little boy dressed from head to foot in denim, with a belt with a large buckle trightened around his waist. You look like a little cowboy who has lost his hat. Diego smiles shyly, long eyelashes weighing down his melancholic blue eyes like Charley Toorops characters. I walk with him to his fathers. We reach his fathers. A dog endlessly barks, the type of oedipal dog that encourages us to regress, no-one tells it to be quiet. Diego most likely takes after his mother, he is dressed like his father. The formidable man with a bent back settles in the only armchair in the room, his head droops forward and his body switches off without me even realising. Another kid arrives who must be his older brother, Antonio. While talking about the towns past, the expropriation of the breeders and the inductrial revolution, I tell them about my intention to photograph them over the following days, my last few days passing through this town. They accept.

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