rought and I are at the height of our annual love affair... This is a complex, tense, difficult relationship... Every year the drought and I play at alternately loving and hating each other... I wander around the town, observing how the greens are disappearing to become yellows, browns and ochres. The air becomes thick, hot, rough and the dust seems to be more than a third of what one breathes... Yet she knows that I love her drama and that unmistakable sense of decay she brings to the valley... The branches of the trees are stripped bare, some even die... On the hills appear rocks, paths and places unnoticeable during the rainy season... The landscape is almost abstract, unpredictable and one feels vulnerable in front of the enchantment of some spaces immersed in this almost macabre beauty... For this and more, the drought and I love and hate each other, coming and going in a Dantesque and sometimes incomprehensible symbiosis, in which she throws me into the heat and talks to me about necessary cycles, and I take pictures of her, reluctantly understanding her... The drought reminds me of that present God of Hinduism called “Shiva”, the one who destroys the illusory and immerses us in a state of consciousness that clears and clarifies what we once believed to be real... I don't know, but there is something between me and the drought that year by year gets deeper... It's not just about photography, no... In every cycle there is a lesson to learn...