The time, like all human construction, is relative. It can stretch or contract, speed up or slow down, but it can also be stopped. Live forever on the same day, frozen in an instant, hanging in the middle of a pause. Many people choose this hibernation of their own free will, others it is given. But all of them live in an alternative and self-absorbed universe, written on the margins of the vertigo of immediacy and emptiness. In front of him, the solidity of an unbreakable routine, the certainty of the habit that leaves room to find ourselves, stuck to the ground as if they were our roots.

Thus, reconciled with what we are, the dead times revive, resurrected like us by contact with the ground, in a continuous cycle that never stops. This series is the portrait of the most minimal populations in our country, a particular world that its inhabitants allow us to peer into the confidence of our perjury. A world without hands, suspended in a time that is no longer, thus emulating the very nature of the image. Because what are photographs, if not more than small dead time?

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