I had been to Cadaques once in the past. It was during the summer of 1993, not long after meeting Claire. Broke as usual, we drove down in her little black car with our sleeping bags and slept on the beach, which of course is forbidden. Claire looked like a Horst model and I like a skinny mariner with a black eye, Rolleiflex and sketchbook at hand.
Now that I look at these photographs again, I see how well the negatives have aged and by their smooth and velvety grain, simply kill the ones taken last week.
