Under the corrugated iron of a workshop in Montreuil, between the floating vapors of solvent, ink and palo santo, there, two persons in symbiosis are working in minute details.
A man : Nelson Marin Marin, originally from Chili, and whose nature resemble those scented woods lit by the Inca to lure in goodluck and expiate all negativity. At first, there is this great fire, a smile on his face, the energy of not only the great days but also the prodigious night ; Nelson’s a party-animal. At sixty-two, he would melancholically tell you that his greatest hours of fun are behind him, but his cunning gaze quickly remind you how much more there is to come. After the flames comes the smoke, thick and dense of a well lived life, sometimes painful and filled with those memories that we try to keep at bay, for the old deamons are keeping near. He is one of those souls with a patent bravery that does not come without a certain modesty, noble guarantee of a unlimited humility.
It is through Constance eyes – who now work at his side, and will soon take over the workshop – that appears in day light this comforting paternel figure, silently if needed, when the trust between them stand in for any words