When the summer came: stifling heat, heavy, sticky smells mixed with the air. Journeys, commotion, the hot, heavy smell of burnt motor oil, seats of imitation leather impregnated with pestilent sticky sweats that assail the nose. A smell that passed from the nose to the brain, causing dizziness and nausea. Until through the window a puff of fresh air came to you, pine or broom, freeing the senses from their former torpor. But that was only for an instant, before falling back into the oppressive state of all the senses. I have never got used to these saturated, thick, heavy smells, just as I have never got used to obscure, confused or dark events. Events and smells have etched themselves on my memory, they are smell-memories. And when I sense them again, my spirit tries to elude them, because they go against my nature; they seem to destroy or annul my being, since I have always sought clarity in all things.
Where does the smell begin, where does the stench end, and why does each of us perceive it in a different way? Perhaps the events that spark the creative act are very similar, there where there are no limits or norms, because it is we who impose them on ourselves.
Smell of life
Smell of no smell
Smell of death

Antoni Marquès