Ficha técnica Título: Espera Serie: Círculos Autor: Iñaki Horta Ciriza Año: 2026 Técnica: Acrílico sobre tela Medidas: 60 × 90 cm Estado: Obra disponible En la ciudad de las Puertas Redondas no había relojes. Nadie sabía cuánto duraba una hora ni cuándo terminaba una tarde. En las paredes de la estación colgaban grandes círculos morados, y cada uno se abría únicamente cuando llegaba el momento exacto. Nara llevaba tres días sentada frente al círculo más grande. Su abuela le había contado que, detrás de aquella puerta, aparecía todo lo que una persona había perdido por culpa de las prisas. A su lado esperaba Oren, un hombre alto que deseaba recuperar una palabra que nunca llegó a pronunciar. Un poco más atrás permanecía Ivo, con un pequeño equipaje. Él decía que había perdido un camino, aunque no recordaba hacia dónde conducía. —¿Cómo sabremos que ha llegado el momento? —preguntó Nara. —El círculo cambiará de color —respondió Oren. —O quizá desaparecerá —añadi...
I’ve never been one to revel in the world of sports.
Each time a game lights up the television screen, my hand instinctively seeks
the remote, eager to escape. The charm of athletic contests has always been a
mystery to me… until this momentous day.
Oh my
goodness, what a revelation! I’ve never witnessed such elegance in an athlete.
She stands tall, her strength matched only by her grace. Her movements are
precise, deliberate. I find myself captivated, unable to look away. It’s as if
she’s performing a dance with the ball, and the ball is more than willing to
follow her lead.
Her large,
black hair cascades and undulates, perfectly in sync with every nuanced
movement. It’s mesmerizing, really, how it accentuates her every action.
She leaps,
she sprints, she converses with the sphere as if it were a trusted companion.
And she will never let the ball fall — it’s a vow she’s not prepared to
forsake.
I gaze upon
her, utterly transfixed, incapable of diverting my eyes, not even for a blink.
At times, it appears as though she’s engaging in a playful dance with the sun
itself, rather than a mere volleyball.
As the game
concludes, the players join hands, their voices rising in a chorus of
jubilation. The young woman’s visage radiates sheer joy, a testament to the
triumph they’ve shared.
There I
stand, contemplating how to close the distance between us, searching for the
right words to express my admiration. Yet, one thing is clear: I cannot let
this moment pass without knowing her name, without a clue of where to find her
again.
I glance at
my camera, my steadfast ally, and the solution emerges effortlessly.
“Excuse me,
Miss, I’m a photographer. I observed the game and snapped some shots that I’d
love to share with you.”
“Really? That’s
quite surprising, but thank you.”
“If you’d
be so kind as to share your email, I’ll ensure the photos reach you. The match was
incredible… I’m Iñaki, by the way.”
“Thank you…
I’m Eloise. Jot down my email.”
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