I’d been living in Cuba for about a year when I met Marta. She was sitting in her friend Mita’s car, a woman I was shooting a project for. Marta was smoking a cigarette and had long nails. I took a picture.
They were picking me up from the police station, I’d been taken into custody for photographing a police officer on the street, and I didn’t have my press credentials on me.
Marta’s hand, the first photo I took of her before seeing her face.
The photo I took which led to my being taken in to the police station.
Marta had “guara,” the Cuban word for a certain ease at befriending perfect strangers. I can’t remember what we did that day but Marta got my number and started calling me, often, asking me to come over and hang out Read more…