Tadeo Pestaña Caro

“Perhaps he liked the act of going to the movies more than the movies themselves…” writes Jonas Trueba in his book *El viento sopla donde quiere* regarding one of his cinephile friends. Lately, I find myself returning again and again to that phrase when I think about my own bond with cinema—an art form that has fascinated me for as long as I can remember and to which I have dedicated my life. Whenever I pass by a movie theater—especially those that open directly onto the street—I cannot help but wonder if I am actually trapped in that unique, initial sensation of walking into a cinema. Whenever I visit a new city, I seek them out, track them down, and find them. Many have closed their doors, turned off their lights, and dismantled their screens, transforming into shops, churches, or stadiums. Yet others remain standing amidst businesses, parking lots, and buildings; when I find them, I stop and gaze at them for a while, fantasizing about them and trying to recapture that original sense of wonder. If I can, I go inside to watch a film or ask the ticket taker to let me see the auditoriums. At other times, I can only view them from the outside, peering through windows to see what remains amidst the boarded-up openings and rubble. But I always want to document them so that I might hold onto something of them—to help them, in some small way, in their resistance and their endurance.