The smoke is there the next day, caught up in the threads of clothes. And not just the ones I’d been standing in as I watched the fires burn – everything in my cupboard has the whiff of burnt wood. I open the windows and the smell of smoke sits over the city. The fires are out, but their residue will linger for another few days. Andy Warhol catalogued his life into three-month segments of perfume, his scent museum that he’d sometimes wander into, un-stopper a smell and remember. In Valencia I bottled smoke.
I wrote about the beauty of the burning fires in Valencia, Spain for The Writers Bloc, which you can read in full here.