There is an all but abandoned hamlet on the Mediterranean coast of southern Spain with the very Castilian name of La Almadraba de Monteleva. If it weren’t for the speed bumps, you might drive right through it and barely notice it. But that would be your loss.
Why is it that old and ruined places look different when one is thinking as a photographer, as opposed to visiting with little else in mind? I think that it is the anticipation of transforming a color, a texture, a shape or a shadow, that one would otherwise give no second thought to, into an image that might extract beauty, or perhaps interest, out of oblivion. I travel to southern Spain every year to visit family near the city of Almería. It is a pretty area, squeezed between the foothills of the Sierra Nevada and the Mediterranean Sea. There are landscapes and little hamlets that have not changed much since the turn of the twentieth century, but that are sadly being encroached upon by industrial agriculture, in the guise of an ever expanding sea of ugly plastic greenhouses. But there are still places where one can spend a quiet afternoon trying to capture the essence of an age gone by.
La Almadraba de Monteleva is one of those places, located close to the southernmost tip of Cabo de Gata. It is mostly known to tourists from elsewhere in Europe as a remote and solitary beach, with perfect sunsets and plenty of room to park their camper vans. But the area also contains the remains of what used to be a salt mining operation. Salt was extracted from a lagoon separated from the Mediterranean Sea by a sand bar. Periodic flooding of the lagoon by sea water, followed by strong evaporation during the relentless Almerían summers, made salt mining a relatively simple and profitable enterprise. Sometime during the twentieth century, however, salt extraction became a less profitable undertaking than intensive agriculture and tourism, and the pace of mining slowed to a trickle.
Located across the main road from the beach, La Almadraba today consists of a few derelict buildings, a nineteenth century church and some scattered fishing skiffs in various stages of decay. It is a place that, at first glance, has no particular attraction. But this impression changes if one arrives late on a windy winter afternoon. As the sun goes down over the Mediterranean it bathes the old buildings and boats in golden light and the place comes alive with colors, shapes, details and shadows. It is a transformation, from a mundane scene to a wonderland of light, that I have witnessed in many other places as well. Suddenly there are so many compositions to work on that the light disappears too quickly.
On this particular visit I had with me two rightly famous Leica lenses, a first generation Summilux R 50mm and a more recent Summicron R 35mm, in addition to the Contax Vario Sonnar 35-70mm that I have written about. These are lenses from a simpler, and in most ways better age. When you had to put something of yourself into creating an image, rather than allowing software to generate a surgically perfect and inane photograph that looks just like all the other ones posted by your “followers” in some “social media platform”. I would give anything for access to a time machine, one that travels only into the past with no return ticket. Walking around a derelict salt-mining village with a few vintage lenses in my bag may be as close as I ever get to the dream of time travel.
Alberto, these are beautiful. I can’t decide if my favorite is the first boat, Ralf, or the broken down relic white boat. These would be so amazing framed or on a frameless canvas.
I love your work.
Thank you Dawn! Always good to hear from you.