The images show the attempt to create a cinematic portrait of the Catalan poet Lala Blay, which I left unfinished twenty years ago.

She reads her poems in the garden of her parents’ house, reflects, waits, sometimes despairs, laughs, and walks through the woods… We see different corners of the garden, trees, cats—many cats—mountains, shadows, and ghosts. There are also other images that share an affinity with those I once filmed: fragments of films, books and poets, painters and paintings… that still haunt me. There is also music, and there is loss… and even a kind of magic.

As the images unfold, I sit in front of the screen and read my text. A monologue… or is it a dialogue? With the images? With poetry? With the audience? I tell why I wanted to film Lala and speculate about why I never succeeded. What does it mean to make images? And what if creating images were nothing more than recognizing them as a place of affection and belonging? A place we might call home? And what if that bond were broken?

This love song is an attempt to return to the images you once loved and to which you once belonged. It is an essay in search of a lost voice and a reflection on the possibility of creating something again. A film that can exist only if I tell it.