One Sunday in August in Barcelona, from empty morning streets to the drums at nightfall.
In the morning, Barcelona is still quiet. Shaded streets, a small street-cleaning truck, a woman on a bicycle under an archway, a man standing in front of a metal shutter. In the evening it's the Gràcia festival, and the street belongs to the drums. Troupes in red, in black, in blue. They march as they play, drop to a crouch on the asphalt all at once, then rise together. I stayed at 75mm, a lens that frames tight, inside the crowd, at face height. The parade doesn't interest me. What interests me is whoever leads it: the raised arm, the open mouth, the second before the beat.
