I’ve always thought of my memories as threads—moments spun together to create some form of continuity. When I think of Mexico I see threads, too: fragments of a culture that I am a part of but absent from. Strands of connection that I must decipher.
When I was a kid, my family would go out on warm summer days and, under a shady tree, we would set up picnics atop a serape. I would lay down, put my eye close to the ground, and gaze at the cacophony of colors beneath me. I was enamoured by the geometry of the serape, its boldness of tones, its thoughtful design. As my eyes grazed the miniature canyons of thread that made up the serape, I spotted imperfections. Inconsistencies in the dye, nicks in the weave, impurities between the fibers. It was full of shortcomings but still, as a whole, the cloth was exactly what it was. Nothing more and nothing less than the fibres that made it, the strands of imperfect moments and memories that came together.
All images by Francisco Berlanga.