"There is no graphic evidence that the weekend S Moda was launched I bought the newspaper because then we did not take pictures of each other on Saturdays having breakfast. However, I am certain that it was like that."
The week that S Moda appeared, I had bathed, for the first and last time, in the Torres Blancas pool, I was wearing straight skirts and I was preparing for a trip to Rio de Janeiro. I haven't done any of that again. I have a good memory and that is condemnation because I remember even what I wish I had forgotten.
I think of that September 2011 and moments, clothes, and places return to me without resorting to clouds or external drives. Some dance for me. I dance.
I don't know what it was like then: I remember everything except myself. To remind me of the week this magazine was born, I have resorted to the bottomless pit of my albums and there I am. I have long hair, I'm about to start a company that was just a notebook and a pen at the time, and I look agitated. I can see that.
There is no graphic evidence that I bought the newspaper on the weekend that S Moda was launched because then we did not take pictures of each other on Saturdays having breakfast. However, I am certain that it was so. I remember that, although I appreciated the ambition of the cover and the smile of the character, it disturbed me to see Sarah Jessica Parker wearing a bullfighting jacket.
It may be because it reminded me of a season in which I worked posing at the School of Arts and Crafts in Seville dressed in one of them (sic) and it bored me like oleander. I wish there had been AirPods.
I write these lines at home looking askance at an issue of S Moda. It is next to the air conditioning control (the day the electricity bill breaks another record), a Sunday supplement with Almodóvar on the cover, and a book by Vanessa Springora that I bought a few days ago at an airport. If I look into the kitchen I will find a pile of magazines in which there are several more issues.
I will end up getting rid of them; there is a certain modesty in doing it too soon. When I write I want to have them close; it's as if that network of people and talents that make them possible hold me down. A house without magazines is… I don't know, I have no idea: in my life, since I was little, there have always been them.
Much is said about objects that survive moving and very little about magazines that survive travel. I started my last trip with the previous issue of this magazine in my bag. I read it on the plane and even had time to borrow it. I returned from the trip with that same magazine in the bottom of the suitcase, wrinkled, but back. With how easy it would have been to leave it in any hotel or in seat 19 F.
I brought it to me. I'm not going to keep it for 10 years, but I may remember it for a few more years. I am intrigued to know what will happen to this number. I have on the table a photo album that has on the cover a quote from Alice in Wonderland: "What a poor memory that only works backward." Hopefully, I can remember moving forward.
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