As if his eyes could see something that the rest of us don’t see, he discovered that the secret was there. Not in the perfect technique – which he already mastered with incredible ability – but in that art of capturing the true humanity behind an apparent image.
The message was there: in the cracks that furrowed Favaloro’s frown, in the cigarette that rested forever between Cortázar’s lips or in the blue and yearning eyes of his beloved María Elena. And also in the self-portraits that she took in front of her mirrors when she had a shot left over on the rolls: there was Sara, always with a little piece of her face hidden behind her lens.
And although he regretted not being able to touch a button and show his photo to the world without film or development involved, that instantaneity – today exacerbated by digital creation and retouching – also did its part to devalue the essence of photography, understood as that art that she herself defined as “the wonder of capturing a moment.”
Now that screens flood us with images that never seem to be true; Now, between biases, algorithms and deep fakes, remembering Sara’s craftsmanship becomes a necessary vindication in favor of humanity. In this poor abundance, we take more and more photos, but we no longer capture anything.
