When we wandered out of the hotel to find supper, we passed a row of older local people sitting companionably on a bench. If I had had the nerve, I would have photographed them. And asked how old they were. Impossible to say.
They were all about 70 or 80, thereabouts. Men and women. Seven of them.
They sat in various comfortable poses, legs akimbo, leaning backwards slightly, or forward, or onto a stick which helped to balance even while sitting down.
They wore Spanish old people's stuff, which is old-fashioned but instantly recognisable.
They looked like a fantastic statue or artwork. They were still, or peaceful, rather than animated, so their quality as an installation was more to the fore.
Their knees were very lovely.
They had lived through a lot - and they watched us wandering up to them with steely eyes - not hostile but seeing us as different, foreign.
I wish, I wish I had photographed them, but it was out of the question, objectifying them.
The Santander Seven.