Bidireccional

11/06/2026

Dire de foto para esta serie 💘 Pocos medios y mucho amor 🫶 un lujo trabajar con Andrea de Haro

https://youtu.be/jf1wAHAx9t4?is=jIoiz-8FU8EqPNEa

MI PRIMERA VEZUna miniserie creada por Estudio La ColmenaTrabaj...

11/06/2026

Un año más, el Festival Nuevo Cine Andaluz de Casares convoca su Concurso de Fotografía.

La temática es el cine, entendido de la forma más libre y personal: una mirada, una escena, una emoción, una historia.... Esta es la fotografía ganadora del año pasado, "Lisa und Ana", de Ana Cayuela.

El jurado seleccionará 30 fotografías que formarán parte de la exposición de la edición 2026. La obra ganadora recibirá el Pajarraco de Plata y un premio de 1.000 €.

La inscripción es gratuita y se realiza en formato digital.

📸 ¡esperamos tu propuesta!
Las bases en https://www.nuevocineandaluz.com/bases-concurso-fotografia-2026/

30/03/2026

Conoce toda la actualidad de la provincia de Almería a través del blog de la Diputación de Almería.http://blog.dipalme.org/

21/01/2026

Bodies search for a pair the way a hand searches for a wall in the dark…slowly, instinctively, with an accuracy born from need. Not a “match,” not a solution, but a second surface: something that answers. A presence that returns the body to itself. In this composition, pairing is not romance; it is physics. A body against a stone wall, carrying its own weight like a question. A vertical wound in the image: an opening, a seam, a fissure: suggesting that every landscape has a place where it could split and still hold. A face lowered into patterned light, as if the world were trying to read the skin the way weather reads a cliff: with repetition, with pressure, with time.

To search for a pair is to search for a mirror that doesn’t flatter. A reflection that tells the truth without punishing it. Sometimes the pair is another body blurred, warm, almost indistinguishable from the air around it: two figures folding into each other to become less alone, to become a single shelter. Sometimes the pair is not human at all: it is a ruin on sand, a fragile structure built from what was available, proof that even abandonment can be arranged into a temporary home. Reflection appears here as a discipline. The body looks for itself in surfaces that resist: concrete, night, dust, the hard edge of a threshold. It searches for a place where it can be seen without being exposed, held without being owned. The pair is not always found. Sometimes only the echo arrives: the residue of touch, the afterimage of someone who stood there before. And yet the search continues, because the body knows something the mind forgets: connection is a basic function, like breath. Like light returning. Like the quiet insistence of two forms, close enough to share warmth, refusing to disappear.

21/01/2026

A flower on the floor of the room, a Pacific sea flower on the floor, on the floor a white flower, a flower I cultivate in my chest, a white flower. White, white, leaden, a flower on the floor. A white flower on the floor. A white flower, Pacific-sea white, salt-white, bone-white, milk-white, leaden white. A flower on the floor of the room, on the floor of the world, on the floor of my ribs. A white flower I cultivate in my chest (white, white, white) until the petals feel like breath and the breath feels like petal.

I look at it and my body hurts. My body hurts from seeing it: the bright insistence, the quiet cruelty of its purity, the way it refuses to explain itself. A white flower on the floor and the floor becomes a sentence I cannot finish. White on white, and still it cuts. It hurts my wrists, my neck, the soft hinge behind my knees. It hurts as if the flower were a small lamp placed too close to the nerves. It hurts as if light could bruise.

White flower, white flower, white flower again. I say it until language becomes texture. I say it until the word “white” turns heavy, turns metallic, turns leaden, turns into a weight I carry from room to room. A flower on the floor, and I am kneeling without kneeling. A flower on the floor, and I am praying without prayer.

And then,José Martí. Martí like a thread pulled through the chest. Martí like a match struck in a dark pocket. Thinking of Martí, my soul becomes lighter, lighter, not because the world becomes easy, but...

16/12/2025