The Border

When he was ten years old, my grandfather ran away from Spain and misery. He crossed the border all alone, and met my grandmother a few years later.

After he died, I realised that nobody had the same version of this story. So, I decided to repeat his trip myself, and I studied the different stratums of the memory. I used the photos of this border that he had held as precious, and an old movie I shot 20 years ago.

On this border, a fragile edge between real and imaginary, I

have observed shapes of the story transform and evolve.