Reflections
Sometimes a photograph happens before you realize you've seen it.
We had been riding through Havana that morning with our guide and driver. The street was busy. People everywhere. Cars moving. No room along the curb.
And then, for just a moment, there was.
I don't remember composing this photograph as deliberately as it appears. It came from a short string of shutter clicks as we moved through the city. Looking at it afterward, I realized everything had fallen into place.
The palm tree nearly divides the frame.
Seafoam green on one side.
A yellow that isn't quite yellow on the other.
Barn red along the bottom of the columns.
And then the blue car found an empty piece of curb.
What I remember most about Havana, though, is that none of those colors were clean. Everything seemed to carry a thin layer of age, dust, exhaust, and use.
And somehow, it belonged there.
Clean these buildings up too much and they would become something else. The wear is part of the color. The dirt is part of the texture. The imperfections are part of Havana.
Fifty feet behind us, the street was bustling again.
But right here, for one shutter click, there was a parking place.