I had just finished my exhibition Métamorphose in may 2006. I was tired from having shot an empty hospital that reminded me too much of my car accident, being immobile for several months and struggling for two years to walk normally again. I was in the Aluche neighborhood of Madrid when someone brought up the story of Carabanchel Prison. The next day, we decided to visit the exterior of this ghostly prison. A 15-minute walk from Aluche, near the the new police station for immigrants, a large red-brick building appeared before my eyes, a remnant of Spanish history. Without yet knowing exactly why, I felt like I had found the logical follow-up to Métamorphose.
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