The iconic book Doña Maria and her Dream er basert på documentary photographs from Eyrie Friedrichs' many travel to Venezuela, which in 2008 he received the precision-heavy award Lead Gold Award for. The book came under the spell of a journey of discovery in a gloomy and hard Venezuela that is slowly gaining momentum in the oil and politics, while frighteningly gaining an ever-stronger reputation as a test tube for failed theory and practice.
The book starts northwest of the country, in the state of Lara, and moves toward the Falcón region. Over a twelve-year period, Friedrichs met the same families at the same time every single year – a very welcome reunion – while looking for shade and smiles under the small roofs that have managed to withstand both the tooth of a time and a storm or two.
The horizon seems endless, completely colorless – there are no colorful rainbows, and water is more valuable than gold.
Here, a hundred years of solitude has been turned into twelve years of friendship, and the trust between photographer and the people being photographed have not come upon a foothold.
No pirates, no news
But why would anyone volunteer to travel thousands of miles to photograph a forgotten, golden and inhospitable landscape free of pirates, where there is neither war nor drama, and there seems to be no news value? Why would anyone want to go to places where time has stood still, like a lizard waiting for its prey, or seek out blind potters, wrinkled and sunburnt chairmakers or lifeless stone cutters? Why choose some black crows instead of shiny feather parrots?
This is a place where children have never heard of or dreamed about Robinson Crusoe or Gulliver's travels, where the loose cups would be given a feast by Lilliput's inhabitants, while freedom and imagination flow freely over the years and in dry river beds here.
Although the landscape is golden and deserted, it is also a place of sacrifice and survival where luck and chance do not come into play, but where the family's daily routines rely on decades of oral tradition; stories that whisper through open doors and windows while the faces of the old are glimpsed as shadows of the past. Faces as rough and protective as the bark of the trees, scarred by the heat and in silent protest against the elements. Characters like señor Aranguren, with a touch of distinguished English lord, whose chickens are more valuable than all the world's great suits from Savile Row.
Why would anyone want to go to places where time has stood still, like a lizard waiting for its change, or seek out blind potters, wrinkled and tan chairs or
lifeless stone cutters?
And the 114-year-old – if there was paper evidence – doña Ruperta with all the endless stories of her many children and grandchildren who never cease to fascinate or amuse the audience, stories that would have filled hundreds of pages of dusty books. She sits with her crooked hands elegantly folded in her lap and listens to the wind that never brings news, just a promise of one. . .
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