The afternoon of Thursday, August 31, 2017, Jesús F. Úbeda and I arrived at the Madrid suburb of Galapagar, hoping to find, among a row of white chalets, the house of Antonio Escohotado. We were going to interview him for Zenda. And I say “we were going” because, although my trade isn’t that of conducting interviews, there is something about the Latin roots of the word interview in my portraits.
We arrived more than an hour early. The public transport combination was somewhat complex and we hadn’t calculated the timings well.
I felt a certain reluctance to call the house so early, but Úbeda, who has always been more forward than I am, pressed the doorbell without any hesitation.
Antonio opened the door to us, surprised by our punctual arrival, and greeted us with warm hugs, accompanied by a friendly rebuke.
He invited us into his study. I remember that dark room, lit by a few small warm lights that illuminated a babel-like library and a desk covered with papers. It was a special place, where things had spent a lifetime occupying their place.
Perhaps because of the dim light, or that certain chaotic order, or simply because it was a pleasant afternoon, Escohotado invited us to go out to the garden to conduct the interview there, accompanied by the last cans of Heineken he had in the fridge. He and Úbeda sat on wooden chairs, separated by a wide table, perhaps to mark the necessary distance for a first meeting, or simply, out of courtesy, not to disturb Jesús with the smoke. The man from La Mancha, as he settled into his chair, fired the first question: “Saturday, August 26, in reference to the demonstration against terrorism in Barcelona, I remembered you a lot and your penultimate book, Frente al miedo (Página Indómita, 2015). The motto was No tinc por. Do you believe it?”
Usually, I shoot portraits before the interview, to secure the job, but that day it wasn’t possible.
Escohotado was a free spirit and I wasn’t going to try to direct anything, so I adopted the role of silent observer, but attentive to every detail, paying special attention to the conversation. A privilege I still remember to this day.
The talk flowed serenely. Úbeda asked incisively, and Escohotado made reflective pauses between Camel puffs and swigs of beer. His words were full of philosophical references, of complex concepts that he explained with great pedagogy, with witty responses, yet no less interesting, and with a provocative air. A thread of conversation that Úbeda was weaving with the hints Antonio offered him with a wink.
I worked quietly, moving slowly. I couldn’t allow the camera to interrupt the magic of the conversation and the complicity between interviewer and interviewee.
He kept the tension by watching through the viewfinder, seeking a smile, a knowing look, or a gesture. And as they appeared, he fired. I took about twenty shots during the interview.
It was getting late. The hospitality, charisma, wisdom, and gift of gab of our host made it very hard for Úbeda to let go.
After more than an hour of conversation, Antonio stood up to go to the bathroom, and on his return I suggested taking the portraits.
He didn’t like having his photo taken very much, and it showed. We moved to a part of the garden where the background was uniform: a wall full of climbing vines. This made my task easier, achieving with a shallow depth of field a background that silhouettes the philosopher’s figure, wearing a white, Ibiza-style outfit.
We talked about photography while he vaped and walked on the grass without looking at the camera.
I didn’t want to force the mundane moment. Perhaps the portrait, as so often happens, began to be built when I stopped looking for it. He wasn’t looking at the camera, and I understood that neither of us needed it. For an instant, photography found its place. That sincere and natural gesture I had been seeking since I hugged him at the entrance of his house appeared, suddenly, before me.
I have always believed that the talent of photography lies in waiting, and that’s what I did: waiting. And everything lined up: the smoke, his reflective attitude, the vegetation, and the evening light.
In barely a minute we did both portraits, returned to the table, and we had a long conversation among the three of us. As is usually the case in such moments, time faded into the background and it grew late, causing us to miss the last bus back to Madrid.
The philosopher offered to take us by car to the nearest commuter station. The conversation remained lively, and our driver wasn’t paying too much attention to the road. When he ran a stop sign at the entrance to a roundabout and we narrowly avoided being struck by a van, my companion and I were speechless for a moment. Nevertheless, Escohotado did not stop laughing until he dropped us at the station, wishing us a safe journey back.
For several weeks we kept corresponding via email about graffiti; a topic that, to my surprise, interested him in a very singular way.
The interview on Wednesday, September 25, 2019 was for the publication of his new book. We took a little longer before ringing the doorbell, since we did not want to repeat the rush of the previous occasion. A colleague of his, nicknamed El Marino, opened the door for us. He led us to the room where we had been the first time, offered us a seat and some beers. To the philosopher, our appointment had been forgotten, and he appeared half an hour late, wearing swim trunks and a shirt, with espadrilles and a black cap with a white oval embroidered with the name of his beloved island: Ibiza.
He had just come from swimming in his son’s pool.
He was especially cheerful, with glassy eyes and some difficulty vocalizing.
While we waited, I took the opportunity to set up the tripod with a flash and a softbox. After greeting us and offering us a second beer, he sat facing his desk, smiling and lighting a cigarette.
I told him that on this occasion I did need him to look at the camera, and that we would do closer portraits than the first time. He agreed reluctantly. He avoided the camera while he engaged in conversation with Úbeda, I imagine to shorten the process. His state of sweet joy allowed me to take more shots.
I shot wide-angle images of him seated behind the desk and several close-ups.
The portraits appeared spontaneously and freely, capturing his conspiratorial glances of barely a second and where, once again, the smoke was our ally and the protagonist in the image.
Úbeda began the interview, I took a few more photos, and I sat in front of them with my third beer, enjoying the conversation. Jesús kept asking clarifying questions and Escohotado responded with contemplation, giving meaning to his discourse. The conversation was shorter this time, but no less interesting.
We said goodbye, and on the way back to the bus stop, Úbeda told me, with a smile: “We’ve done good work, brother.”
Photography ended up being a way to share with Escohotado something more than a conversation, a hug, or some beers. It allowed me to enjoy a genuine character and discover that, behind his public image, his work, and everything that has been written about him, there lived a sensitive, calm, curious person with a certain shyness.
He was, above all, a free soul; as such, I approached these portraits.