This is my last post on Valencia on the Move.
At the end of this little trip to Valencia, I want to tell you about an imagined story.
One Sunday morning, I cycled across the whole riverbed of the Turia. It was strange to glide along where once there ran a river, to wander through trees with their uncovered and intertwined roots, to observe the relaxed rhythm of a Sunday morning, to be amazed by man’s intervention on nature.
The rhythm of my bike ride alternated continuously between going at speed, through a desire for freedom with the certainty of the wind on my face, and going slowly, through curiosity and the beneficial effect of lifting my face to feel the warmth of the sun.
I glided under the many bridges that cross that which remains of the river, until I arrived under the Exhibition Bridge. Here, I was totally captivated by the intense light and clean shadows, clearly outlined yet harmonious. Shadows that recall the landscape, that immediately make you aware of the presence of the bridge, that allow you to imagine it even before you look up. Shadows that are still part of it even when your gaze has put it all together.
I stopped and left my bike balanced on its kickstand, then I sat down to watch the life that fills the bridge on a Sunday morning. I hung around on every side, above and below, and I watched and tried to imagine the life of others.
The woman with her hair up, with dark glasses and a slow pace, is insecure. I wondered whether her urge to smoke that cigarette at nine o’clock in the morning was due to an ordinary addiction or to the need to diffuse tension. Above all, I wondered if she was going somewhere or if she was returning home.
In the meantime, on one side of the bridge, the shouting got louder of the children busy doing their football training. The vitality, happiness and hard work of the tiny tots may have compensated their parents for such an early rise on a Sunday morning.
From the underbelly of the bridge, two white spots come into view, far away.
Two spots that move towards me in unison, unaware of the presence of those around them, their steps perfectly synchronised and making exactly the same sound, amplified by the empty space under the bridge. It was like a march that had been practised a thousand times in order to follow a specific route from which it is essential not to stray.
I tried to imagine the bond between them. At first, I thought of an old man and his carer. But an incredible harmony suggested something else. The complicity in their identical pace, in wearing the same clothes, same shoes, the choice of the colour white. His blank stare and her eyes looking ahead, almost acting as his guide. All this symmetry convinced me that it must be a close family relationship. The complicity between father and daughter who, unable to talk any more, stay alongside one another, bound by the same rhythm, by a route taken without interruptions, without deviations, as though that straightforwardness could help bring that blank stare into focus.
I love photography also because it allows you to tell real or even only imagined stories; I imagined this story in black and white right from the very first instant, and thus I present it to you.
And here is where my November posts on the Manfrotto Blog come to an end. I hope you enjoyed them. If you have only just found this blog, you can read my previous posts on Valencia on the Move here, here and here.
My name is Bianca, I’m from Naples but I live in Rome. A blogger with big, red glasses, I’m naturally Inquisitive, Absent-Minded and Shy. I love colours, walking and taking photographs; I am won over by the inescapable charm of kindness and a smile, and it’s not hard to make me blush.