It is Sunday, the sun burns the morning, it is ten o'clock with a couple of minutes and I go out to the river, looking (I confess) to photograph something, a bird, a flower, a seed, those forms of beauty that nature gives us.

Ten minutes on foot and I am on the spot, the liquid crystal carpet that is the river contours timidly in its small waves. Its course is slow and beside it things sway to the same rhythm of the current. My guide is my nephew Abraham, he is 4 years old and likes to run so as not to be left behind. This river is kind, it has welcomed several generations of the family in its course.

I know the way, but we go slowly; a wild seed reminds me, by the distribution of its fruits, of a windmill in movement; I have never seen a windmill, except in movies or in my imagination when I read Don Quixote; in fact, if I stare at it, I feel an optical illusion produced by the lines that in the form of small furrows contour along the fruit, I feel as if they were rotating and I also see a kind of wave that goes from the core of the seeds towards their extremities.

But the seeds must be left in place, as the river left this tree in place, embedded among the stones. It looks like a kind of archaeological treasure discovered, clean of rocks, available to the sunlight, to the night and to the eye; it did not occur to me to lie on it because it would have been a desecration, this trunk is a corpse and it is in its place, whether facing front or back it is the evidence of a form of life that now does not give oxygen, but helps to create a contrast of hardness, it is a fossil that gives life to that small space that continues to inhabit.

Stones are like water, they look alike, maybe that's why they go together on the same ground. Since I was a child I like stones, perhaps because they have been material and tools of man since ancient times; they have served as a house, an axe, a hammer, a weapon, a dispute, a collection, it is special if they have carvings or traces of the presence of something previous to the present time.

The first one you see, I left it in place, there in the river. I only titled it THE FACE OF TIME, because that is what it looks like, a stone chiseled by the master Time, some saw an ancient face, it must be because of the wrinkles that furrow the rock; others saw a heart, also burdened by the years, but with the resistance of an eternal god.

The last two photos are of the same stone, two sides of the same coin. They are the only ones that have an edited shadow and the only ones that I took from their environment for my collection, that is why they are in my office because I already told you that I have been attracted to stones since I was a child. When I look at them they remind me of something called naive art. It is one stone, but they look like two, there are two different figures, the first is a sheep, according to my nephew; the second is a little dog asleep in a shoe. I do not contradict my nephew, on the contrary I celebrate his imagination; I on the other hand continue to contemplate them here in my office, with the puerile amazement with which these findings are enjoyed.