MARU’S PHOTOS
text: Luna Parodi
photos: Mª Eugenia Serrano

I revisit these photos every spring, when routine begins to sting like the lines on my ankles under my socks. Prompted by what my eyelids see as they squint in boredom at the lamp’s light: the sun spilling into the sea, gazed at with eyes full of water and saltpeter in the last dip of the afternoon.

2012, something bigger than routine, had to be left behind, broken, and arriving at summer became more urgent. The skin heals with salt. And pores open with sand. The brain drifts away with the excitement of reunion. That summer we returned to occupy the fort among the caravans, that house without doors or roof where the nights always ended.

Fewer and fewer in the same group make it to the caravans’ cigarette break and endure the chatter without sleeping. It used to be easier, because on the way from the tent to the campsite, you could stop and buy some churritos. That was the best thing. The kiosk was still there in the summer of 2012, but I don’t remember when it stopped. It was easier to leave a long-gone winter behind, having so many people ahead of us and present again. And new faces, too. There are always new faces. Who will later become friends, because they are friends of your friends. I’m not saying that, it’s the song that says it.

And that’s how it is. Camping Camaleón is an elastic network of human relationships. Elastic, relaxed, and musical. Always the music in the background. But what’s truly healing about stays at Camaleón, I always say, is the lack of conception of time. The clock disappears, just like the boundaries between spaces. Suddenly you’re on the beach, suddenly you’re in the shower, suddenly you’re at the door of the tent, suddenly you’re at a concert. If you’re hungry, you eat. If you’re sleepy, you sleep. And everything is brown, green, or blue. That’s why I like his photos, because he captures what is experienced as it will be remembered. The plants are on the walls, and the walls are on the plants. You are alone and with others. Up in spontaneity. That’s how he healed us that summer.