Random story

It’s night in Barcelona, everything is quiet. All we hear are the waves splashing and moving. The camera is still and doesn’t move capturing the little light it can. With something like a timelapse it becomes lighter, the sun comes up and slowly slowly we can distinguish the silhouette of the city. Those who are familiar with Barcelona will recognize it by the peak of Tibidabo, the castle on Montjuic, the Hotel Vela, the Agbar tower and finally Torre Mafre. Those who don’t know Barcelona will become curious to know more. It is quiet but as we approach the city’s lights, voices rise and laughs stands out. It’s a joyful scene even though what we see has not changed.

The camera aboards the empty beach that is being raked and cleaned, goes through shiny streets filled with water and some early creatures and enters a house through a window. There is a light breeze and the sun has gone up halfway. It feels warm and comforting. We see white-washed walls, colourful tiles on the floor and an empty easel in one side of the room. A soft music starts to play, a guitar sound from the south, a Malagueña or one of the Suite español de Albéniz. With the accelerating hits of the guitar we enter a room. It’s white, the light blinds us, we see sun rays, white sheets, a half open window with a white curtain flapping in the soft breeze. On the bed, we see a naked leg moving, then a foot. It’s the long, tanned leg of a women. The toenails are painted black and she wears a dark tattoo on the sole of her foot. She inhales, we hear her breath and see the body stretch underneath the linen. Maybe we see some part of her back or more of her leg. It is a slow, peaceful wake-up of  a beautiful women who is somewhat different though. There’s nothing else in the room. It’s bare. It seems like a holiday house on the weekend but we’ll find out that it is Tuesday or any other weekday.

She grabs her phone from the floor and maybe there we see the time and day briefly. She slides it open on an email and reads. She smiles and chuckles and shakes her head while burying it in a pillow. She’s happy.

When she gets out of bed we could get another glance at her tattooed or pierced body. She looks relaxed, toned, like a healthy person but maybe she has a crazy hairstyle. Something that makes her look like an artist. She walks through a long hallway to the bathroom. We see her feet with the tattoo on the sole. I’m imagining a joker. Left foot with a joker face smiling and the right foot with a joker face smoking, blood stained, broken. Something disturbing the peace. Something interrupting this beautiful body and white, innocent house.

We see her feet passing paintings. The floor is tiled like an old Barcelona house but it is freckled with paint drops. On the side there are canvases, some white but most filled with colour standing on the floor against the wall. We make out the bottom part of the canvas without seeing the whole paintings but we understand that it is her who made them. Maybe she puts on a t-shirt that is half broken and proceeds to make coffee. She grinds the coffee beans in old wooden grinder-box, we hear the sound krrrkk and with a soft light and her smooth movements we can almost smell the coffee. She takes a mokka and prepares the coffee on the old gas stove. While the liquid simmers through quietly she takes a shower. She leaves the door to the bathroom open and hums under the water.

When she steps out of the shower we can see the bathroom in a quick sweep. It looks clean, sterile, without much decoration or creams, makeup, perfumes lying around but the walls are filled with colour. Little tiles made of vinyl that turn the hospital white off.

We see her cross the screen again dressed with a towel or getting dressed and getting her stuff together. Here the music starts to play a bit quicker. It becomes clear that it is not Sunday morning but a weekday. She takes the mokka from the stove, pours the dark liquid in a bowl, grabs a cookie and takes it to the desk in the corner of the kitchen. The desk is cluttered. There’s a draw pad from wacom in one corner but it looks not too used. What’s used instead are her pens, pencils, aquarels – there are papers everywhere. The paper bin on the floor is overflowing with papers and crossed out sketches and it is seen when she bends down to pick up the charger of her computer that was plugged in the wall. There are more papers and the residues of an some old coal pencils lying on the otherwise tidy floor. She opens the lid of the computer that is decorated with the Wave Skin and takes a sip of the hot coffee. She reclines in her chair, taking some minutes of relax while the computer charges.

The program that opens is photoshop and there is the silhouette of one of the crazy scribbles that lie in piles before her on the desk.

Her legs are stretched out and on her upper thigh there is a tattoo that we just saw crossed out as a dribble in the paper bin. She shakes her still drying hair and after some keystrokes gets to a website. We had seen the email on her phone earlier – visually it needs to be recognizable that it is the same thing. She opens her account, and sees the dollars. Grabbing a pencil from the cluttered desk she smiles happily. On the wall before her she had pinned a crappy paper full of numbers and names of designs. Moose : 14 sales she marks the five like and adds the money behind it: IIII. It is understandable that she sold something of the Moose painting and made some money. She cashes the money out from her account with some easy clicks ‘button : pay me now” and closes the lid of the computer with a satisfied smirk. Shuffling some papers she finds her moleskin, a fountain pen, takes the computer, its charger and stuffs it all in one Freitag style shoulder bag. The old, used biker bag is decorate with three pins. The pins have more or less the same style than her drawings and her tattoo but are seen only quickly. She shoulders the bag, takes the mug and goes back to the kitchen counter dropping the bag on the floor. She leaves and comes back dressed, grabs an apple, pops it in her mouth, shoulders the bag again, grabs her bike from the walkway, takes the keys from a board on the wall and closes the door behind her.

The tempo is rising once again. We here street sounds, hectic – the calm and warmth of her house, the guitar sounds and the soothing tone of her body are forgotten. The camera follows her in a street – it’s in the city but there are no cars on the street. It’s Torrent dels Flors or one of these high streets going down till the beach but not too wide (two lane maximum). People are walking, the sun is shining and we can see the ocean glitter before us. The camera follows the girl, the dark bike with some colourful sticker blotches, the dark clothes, her hair in the wind and the shoulder back with the buttons.