Photographing ghosts is a task determined purely by chance. Photographing death, too. And I’m not talking about death when it’s already gone and it left an inert body, I’m talking about death as a ghost walking around the room as an observer, waiting peacefully.

And this is how I find a man in bed, reclining quietly, listening to the radio where the music plays. He is looking at the ceiling when I enter the room. He glances at me, then I speak while something breaks and dissolves into the air: 

-Hello Domingo

-Hi buddy, how are you?

The raspy voice almost can be heard over the music from the portable radio.

And we talk like many other days, always drifting away. I take some photos like the ones I took a few days ago: the room, Domingo looking at the camera and one of the empty plate of food on the bedside table. Then someone enters the room and nods. Everything goes on peacefully as usual. It is a sunny day. And although sunlight no longer goes directly into the room, there’s plenty of natural light everywhere.

Back home and without paying much attention, I go through the photos I took until I come across a different one. It grabs my attention, intrigues me, and I study it slowly. There it is in that white corner and in that other one. There it is among the flowers on the pillowcase and in that faint and strange shadow between his fingers. You can see it there too, by the vein in his forearm. There it is, all of it, observing everything peacefully, in those eyes. Can you see it? 

Iván Deiana