There are places that, even if you visit them a thousand times, always manage to surprise you. For me, the sea is one of them. No matter the time of day or the state of the sky, it always has something different to offer, a lesson to impart in silence. Recently, I stood before it at two very different times: at dusk and later, well into the night. And although it was the same sea, the experience seemed completely different.
At sunset, I arrived just as the sun was beginning to paint the horizon orange and purple. The sky looked like a huge canvas where colors mixed without rules, but with a harmony that no painter could imitate. I stood still, watching the sun slowly descend, as if sinking into the waters. There was something magical about that scene, because for a few minutes I felt as if time had stopped. Neither the distant noise of the city nor the conversations of the people around me seemed to exist. There was only me, the sky, and that sea reflecting every brushstroke of light.
I thought about the fleeting nature of moments. That fiery sky would last only a few minutes and then vanish into darkness. And yet, therein lay its beauty: in its fragility. It made me think about how we sometimes cling too much to wanting everything to be permanent, when life moves precisely in those changes, in those endings that become beginnings.
Later, at night, I looked at the sea again. This time, darkness covered almost everything. The movement of the waves was barely discernible, but the distant lights of the city were reflected on them, as if they were fallen stars floating on the surface. The atmosphere was different, more intimate, more silent. It was not a spectacle of intense colors, but an invitation to calm.
I felt as if I were standing in front of a mirror, not of water, but of the soul. That deep tranquility allowed me to hear my own thoughts more clearly. The cool breeze brushed my skin and reminded me that in life we also need these moments of stillness, of reflection. Just as the sea rests under the night, we too must find spaces to stop, breathe, and simply be.
Comparing both experiences, I understood that the sea shows us the same thing as life: that we need both the intensity of sunsets and the serenity of nights. It is not a matter of choosing between one or the other, but of accepting that both are part of the same cycle. That there are days full of fire and movement, and others enveloped in calm and silence.
In the end, I left with the feeling that those images were engraved not only in my memory, but also in my heart. Because contemplating the sea is much more than looking at a landscape; it is finding oneself through the infinite.
My intention in this project is to interpret photographs as if they were chronicles of life, stories that not only describe what is seen, but also what is felt and what each moment teaches us. Because in the end, a photograph can freeze time, but words can give it eternal meaning.
So I invite you to continue accompanying me on this journey, where each image becomes an excuse to reflect, and each chronicle an attempt to give voice to what the world, in its silence, wants to tell us.
The chronicler, the story is just beginning...