Sometimes art is so powerful that it blends with life. After 100 minutes of contemplation, of poetic brushstrokes, I have been left with the certainty that to overcome meaninglessness, abandonment, we only have skin and poetry.

My friend Jean Francois Zurawik was the man who made people happy. It was his obsession, his reason for living. He was the visionary who made the Fete des Lumieres in Lyon the most visited mass event in Europe.

A few hours ago, my much-admired friend Margaret Sayers-Peden, or Petch, one of the great Spanish to English translators, died. She never got to read this letter.

When I can return to the sea, to my mountains, to my cloud forests, I hope I will be able to feel that same amazement.

My utopia has become simpler… I now have nostalgia of the loves that will come, of the trips I have not yet taken, of health as power and capacity. Saudade of the future skin, of the perfect utopia of dialogue and learning, of the music that saves and lifts us up, of being free from fear.

Professional photographers have lost the exclusivity of photographic language. Billions of people can now take high quality photos and also share them, that is, use them beyond the private sphere.

In the summer, one sheds all extra clothing, casting off one’s belongings to the point of near-nakedness. Without memory. Without dreams. Without knowledge.

I’ve heard a terrible rumor. They’re saying that Gabriel Garcia Marquez is dead. Who could think up such a hoax? To say that Gabo is dead is the same as saying that Aureliano Buendía never existed.

Happiness is a glass of fresh water on a hot day, the breeze on your skin, the evening light that kisses everything with its honey.

This is the text I wrote in October 2012 as an introduction to the book Tango, published by Dinediciones. It is a postcard taken halfway through, from a project that has taken me decades.

When we press the shutter, we are saying Here I am; This moment matters, I matter; These are the people I love; I wish this moment would last.