Laguna comes from an imagined memory built from stories I once heard: my father, young, climbing mountains surrounded by frailejón, wind, and silence. It is both landscape and inner state — adventure, effort, stillness, and reward — a pool of pure water at the top of a mountain, suspended in its own time.
It represents the páramos and snowy peaks of Colombia, and with them the spirit of the Andes. It smells of eucalyptus, palo santo, and wet stone. Laguna is the memory of a lagoon, and at the same time, that memory is a lagoon itself — an inner space where I meet myself and God when I imagine sitting on its surface with my eyes closed.
