Natacha G. Mendoza
Lover of art and literature. He lives in the Canary Islands, where he finds the inspiration to write.
Photography by Jordi Casaempere
Horacio and his flowers. Always analyzing each petal, leaf or piece of new life. Horacio involved in that world; lonely, mediocre, absurd. Years ago he stopped being young (so he says), now he only hopes that death does the rest. And without realizing it, he has planted a whole garden of hopes and smells (that's what he calls it). And she goes out like a punctual clock to her ritual, and she is happy while the automatic irrigation system sprouts and feeds. It's always spring in his damn garden (he thinks so). Horacio dances among the Calas, admires the Strelitzias, talks to everyone, even sings to them. I would like to tell another type of story, where loneliness was devastating. Rotting Horacio, making him commit a terrible act. Where a thick rope, that I could turn into a rope ... and that without Horacio and with the summer (I'm sure).