Doorways

Andalusia in late afternoon. The light arrives sideways, the way it always does in the south, and a door that has been ajar for centuries refuses, gently, to close.

I keep filming doorways. Not the rooms behind them. The thresholds themselves. The place where one life sets down its bag and another picks it up.

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There is no narration. There never is. The doors do the talking. What you hear is the village waking up to itself, the way a body does when it remembers it is allowed to be soft.

I wrote that down in a notebook in Vejer, the night before I shot this. I did not know yet that it was the whole film.