- Juan Almarza Anwandter
- 16 jul
- 2 Min. de lectura

I live in a small apartment in Hansaviertel, Berlin. During summertime, I follow an interesting daily routine. Since, in these northern latitudes, the sun rises very early—around 4:30 AM—I wake up with its first rays. Armed with one of my vintage analog Soviet cameras and a Toscanello cigar, I take a long walk around my neighbourhood in search of “targets of opportunity.” These range from flora and fauna to architecture. I am particularly interested in the dialogue between nature and architecture, which is a characteristic feature of Berlin, and specifically of this area.
The counterpoint between the stillness of buildings and the subtle movement of vegetation, with its inherent dynamics of change, is fascinating. The grounded and stable character of architecture, with its clear-cut contours, contrasts with the playful variations of chiaroscuro in the trees’ foliage. The reflections of the buildings’ facades in the waters of the Spree imprint them with a certain aura of ephemerality and ethereal delicateness.
This counterpoint between stillness and movement is, in turn, the expression of the counterpoint between Being and Becoming, which is a fundamental aspect of our experience of being in the world. I love architecture because it embodies our longing for permanence, rootedness, and endurance in the face of impermanence and change. Somehow, architecture defies the passage of Time. It is an affirmation of Being. But, like any entity belonging to this material world, it is inevitably subject to processes of ageing and decay. Just like trees, clouds, or humans, buildings come into being, last for a certain period of time, and pass away—although at a slower tempo.
In the end, everything flows, as Heraclitus wisely affirmed more than 2,000 years ago. What is a photograph but a vain attempt to freeze the flow of Becoming in the stillness of a “fixed” image?

