"Editing My Father" is the working title of my latest project, a natural progression from my earlier work, "Home." That project is an archive of videos, family photographs, holiday slides, and documents collected as my family home was emptied for sale.
This new chapter centers on the hundreds of slides my father left behind, uncovered while clearing the house—untouched since his death twelve years ago. Engaging with these images sparks an inner dialogue between me and my late father, blending his photographic expertise with mine and intertwining his captured memories with my lived ones. This exchange will give rise to a series of spontaneous, mobile slide projections—pop-up homages celebrating him as both a father and an amateur photographer.
Ready for the odyssey.
Tomorrow, my odyssey to retrieve my father’s slides begins. The journey will take me from Cardiff to Bristol, then on to Barcelona, Zaragoza, back to Barcelona, Bristol, and finally Cardiff again. For this trip, I’ve chosen a vintage leather suitcase as my perfect companion.
This weathered suitcase first belonged to my grandfather, who carried it when he emigrated to Caracas, Venezuela, after the Spanish Civil War. Later, it traveled with my father on his many business trips. Both men, curiously, were named José Luis—though the tag attached bears a misspelling. As a Jorge, I can’t help but wonder if the error was a fluke or a sign that this suitcase was always destined for me.
Regardless, it’s packed and ready. Tomorrow, a long journey lies ahead.
Family Tree.
Over the past few days, I’ve been gathering video interviews with family members I haven’t seen in twelve years. Before sharing them with you, I’ve created an animation to introduce my family and provide context about who I’ll be discussing. This family tree reflects our family as it was twelve years ago—though it has since undergone some changes. Still, it serves its purpose well enough.
Collecting first details.
On my way home, I stayed one day in Barcelona. And just before to get my train to Zaragoza, I asked a couple of questions to Alex (Alejandro), my cousin.
Grandmother preview.
The editing of my grandmother’s interview—or "Menchu," as my father and family members like me called her—is underway. Before the final cut is released, I wanted to share something she said about my father that I couldn’t capture on film:
“Great people like your father leave us too soon because God is selfish and wants them all to Himself.”
Emilio and Cristina.
One day after arriving in Zaragoza, I met Emilio and Cristina. Emilio was my father’s cousin. Though both originally hail from Poland, they now call Zaragoza home. Our reunion was deeply emotional—we hadn’t seen each other since my father’s death twelve years ago.
Over a delicious meal prepared by Cristina, we caught up on our lives and shared memories. Emilio recounted some of the pranks my brother and I used to pull when he briefly lived with us. He also spoke warmly of how my father helped him settle in Spain, assisting him in finding a job—a kindness Emilio still holds dear.
Just before leaving, I snapped a portrait with my phone. In the photo, you’ll notice a drawing on the left-hand side—a portrait of their son, Jorge, who now lives in Poland. They’ve invited me to visit them there in October or November, when they’ll be spending time in Poland. It’ll be a chance to reconnect with Jorge, whom I haven’t seen in years. I may share more about them soon.
This meeting meant a great deal to me. Emilio and Cristina have been my only personal link to my father’s family over the past twelve years—unlike my brother, who’s stayed in touch with them. Curiously, it also sparked a rekindling of my connection with my father’s cousins, Amanda and Adrián. I rediscovered them after Emilio and I became Facebook friends, and I’m eager to meet them soon.
E6, sunflower seeds and projections.
This photo captures the current state of my family home’s living room, a space once alive with my father’s slide projections for friends and family. Back then, the room was fuller—furnished with sofas, chairs, and shelves brimming with books.
At its heart, we’d set up a portable screen, propped up for holiday and family slides. A projector, balanced on a stack of books on the middle table, cast the images to life. In the warm, dimly lit room, loved ones gathered around this makeshift stage, munching on sunflower seeds—a cherished ritual of the Lizalde-Cano family—while my father narrated his photographs with stories and insights.
After his death, I inherited his photography equipment. With it, I took my first pictures and began projecting them for my university friends. I often wonder if my peculiar fondness for the projection booth—later becoming a cinema projectionist—echoes those early slide shows.
The slides, shot on E-6 film, were an affordable and rewarding way to learn photography, demanding precision to nail the exposure. Today, with E-6 processing growing costly and rare—only a handful of labs in the UK still offer it—this project feels like more than a tribute to my father. It’s also a homage to the fading art of E-6 itself.
Mum, why we have always eaten sunflower seeds?
“Are you nuts?” my mum asked with a shy smile, her initial reaction when I tried convincing her to answer a question on camera. Two days later, she called me saying, “I’m ready.” It didn’t surprise me—I knew it was part of her diva act, a role she’s always played so well.
She might be right about me being a little crazy. There’s no grand reason behind this family ritual, and as she puts it, we might just be “a monkey family.” But it wasn’t exclusive to us—it spilled over into social gatherings, like my father’s slide projections. So, it wouldn’t feel authentic to recreate those projections without inviting viewers to nibble on sunflower seeds and ponder their origins alongside me.
Garrapinillos, no San Mateo.
To keep you updated on my journey, I thought some geographic context would be helpful.
On the left-hand side of the image, you’ll find an illustration tracing my route: Cardiff to Bristol, then Barcelona to Zaragoza. I included this not just to highlight the distance—roughly 1,168 miles—but also to introduce Zaragoza, a city some may not know or be able to place on the Iberian Peninsula.
On the right-hand side, there’s an overview map of Zaragoza and its surrounding villages. I was born in the capital, but when I was four, we moved to San Mateo de Gállego, a village 25 kilometers north of the city, marked in red. That’s where my family home is located.
You may also notice another spot, marked in blue, about 20 kilometers west of Zaragoza, between Utebo and Garrapinillos. This is the home of my uncle and aunt, Gus and Pilar, who now live in Barcelona. This blue dot near Garrapinillos will be the focus of my next two posts, as it’s where all the belongings from my family home ended up after it was emptied.
Shaking boxes as maracas.
Believe it or not, these boxes hold the cherished remnants of 21 years of a family of four—roughly two boxes per person. Every object that wasn’t sold, donated, loaned, or discarded ended up here. I was 85% certain my father’s slides were among them; the remaining 15% stemmed from my mother’s vague assurance that they were indeed in there.
On August 25, 2011, at around 4:30 p.m. (GMT +1), in the loft of my uncle’s house in the parched countryside outside Garrapinillos—8.3 miles west of Zaragoza, with the air simmering at 50°C—my cousin Guille, who’d kindly driven me, and I began the search. Before arriving, we’d asked my mum if there was any archiving system. We’d hoped the slides might be neatly packed and labeled. Her response? “No, but if you shake the boxes, you’ll hear them.” So, that’s what we did—shaking each box like a maraca.
Surprisingly, the method worked. We heard rattling in every single box, which led us to open and empty them all, ensuring we’d found every slide before repacking everything. The hurried, systematic process didn’t leave time to examine each item closely, but it unearthed a flood of forgotten memories—sparkling fragments of joy and sorrow, stirred together in a quiet warmth that bridged past, present, and future. The reverie was abruptly broken by a glance at the time: “Blimey! It’s 5:20 p.m.—Grandma won’t be pleased if we’re late!”
Don’t be shy Guille!
Just before heading back to the city center and leaving Garrapinillos, I posed some questions to Guille. Guille is short for Guillermo, though everyone calls him “El Guille”—literally “The Guille.” In Spain, we adore nicknames, and shortened names often double as affectionate monikers.
At first, he seemed a bit nervous. He knew the interview’s purpose, having seen his brother featured on the blog. But once he relaxed, the words flowed freely. It’s heartwarming to hear how, even years after my father’s death, people still recall him with such vivid memories and stories. The way they speak of him—with genuine admiration and praise—touches me deeply.
First mission nearly accomplished
Here we are at Zaragoza’s train station, waiting for the AVE. I’ll admit, fitting all the slides into the suitcase was a bit of a challenge, but as you can see, it’s packed and ready to go.
This journey has been deeply emotional and demanding, yet also rewarding and enriching. I wish it could have been longer—I didn’t get the chance to speak face-to-face with all the family members and friends I’d hoped to see. Still, the project has opened new lines of communication. I’m now connected with most of them through Facebook, Skype, email, and phone. So, despite the distance as I head back to Cardiff, our conversations will continue through these channels and be shared on the blog, alongside the slide-editing process, which I’m eager to dive into.
Et Voilà!
Et voilà! The first mission is complete—the suitcase and its contents have arrived in Cardiff. Now, the editing begins. But where do I start?
Around 1989 or 1990, when I was 10 or 11, we embarked on a month-long holiday in Morocco. We drove across the country, from the northeast to the Atlas Mountains, looping back via the northwest. During that trip, I took several photos with my father’s guidance and his camera. One moment stands out vividly: the first time I consciously captured an image, aware of what I was doing.
I’m not chasing the exact photo from that instant—it may have been lost in my father’s editing long ago. What I seek is an image that evokes the moments leading up to it, a snapshot that recalls my father’s brief but indelible introduction to the technical side of photography. That was my first—and last—lesson from him.
Photography didn’t grip me after that trip. That changed in July 1999, when I inherited my father’s camera after his passing. The faint echoes of his advice from that Moroccan holiday—those fleeting tips for that one picture—became the foundation I’ve since tried to build upon in my own image-making.
So, once again, Marrakech’s bustling square will mark the starting point. The editing process will begin there, unraveling uncertain storylines through the reel projections that follow.
Eureka!!
Today, July 6th 2012, marks the 13th anniversary of my father’s death. It’s also the moment I began taking photos with intention, embarking on my journey as a self-taught photographer.
Beginnings are always daunting. Those early experiments, trials, and insights were shaped by a familiar pattern—the hazy technical advice my father shared 9 or 10 years earlier, just before one of the photos I mentioned in my last post (Et Voilà!) was taken.
While searching for a symbolic image to kick off the slide reel, I stumbled upon two contenders. My memory initially latched onto the first, drawn by the light and time of day. But after closer inspection, I’m convinced it’s the second—a shot from an early morning breakfast with my family. What swayed me was the location. It’s fascinating how specific details can reshape a memory: the angle of the shot, the proximity to the square, and especially that unavoidable metal roof at the bottom, disrupting the composition. That’s the one element I distinctly recall from that moment—and it still irks me!
Now, I’m certain I’ve found that foundational image. It might not be the exact one I took, but I’m sure it was captured just before or after that instant. Discovering it in the collection was a huge, thrilling surprise—it means more to me than I can express. I’m buzzing with excitement and can’t wait to complete my first edit, story, or reel. High five!
Let me introduce my father.
While sifting through my archive in search of a lost photo, I stumbled upon this posthumous portrait of my father, one I created a few years ago, just before my family home was emptied.
The painting itself was crafted by my uncle, José Luis Cano, a well-known artist from my hometown and a close friend of my father’s. He’s also my mother’s brother, and her influence subtly weaves through the image—evident in the surrounding decor, a clear reflection of her world.
If someone asked me today to conjure an image of my father, it would closely resemble this portrait. So now, when I speak of him, we share a common visual touchstone.
1st editing
A couple of weeks ago, I was shortlisted for an interview for a group exhibition. To my surprise, they were intrigued by this project.
With just three days to prepare, I sifted through all the slides—around 2,000 in total—and put together this initial draft of a potential projection. I still don’t know the outcome of the interview, but I wanted to share this first reel with you.