序言 | Foreword

我在布宜诺斯艾利斯郊外父亲的农场度过了童年的夏天。经过漫长的高速公路和尘土飞扬的土路，我们一到农场，我就会跑到车前，从仍然很烫的散热器上小心翼翼的取下撞在上边的蝴蝶。他们中的大多数都已经死了，但有一两个会紧紧抓住我的手指，慢慢地回到掌心，最终飞走，从它们的翅膀上总会掉落留下一些粉尘。

我有两个姐姐，但我九岁的时候，她们都是十几岁的孩子，生活在另一个维度，所以我几乎一个人在畜栏、棚屋和田野里闲逛，和马和牛说话，为他们感到难过。永远受惊的羊，跟着我父亲四处走动，和工头的妻子伊莎贝尔聊天，在树枝上寻找蛇皮，把甲虫正面朝上，用报纸做风筝。

晚上，我会剪掉妈妈从美国旅行回来的旧《纽约客》杂志，并用这些照片为我自己的日记《大黄蜂》配图，我会以一比索的价格卖给我的父母。

晚上，我们会搭起沙滩椅，不耐烦地等待不明飞行物出现，数着流星。我们唯一的旅行是去多纳布兰卡那里，我父亲会在那里修轮胎，买鸡蛋、奶酪和自制果酱。她有成群的狗和小狗，它们会跳来跳去迎接我们。绵羊、山羊、兔子、小马四处游荡，成堆的动物骨头、废金属和旧家具乱七八糟地陈列着。在这个国家，当游客到达时，大多数地方都会从沉闷的寂静变成喧闹的运动和噪音，所以我当时认为在多纳布兰卡总会发生一些不寻常的事情。

1981年我父母卖掉了农场，我很久之后才有机会再次回到农村。那次是在他们位于布宜诺斯艾利斯南部的小农场，我年纪大了，刚从纽约学习摄影一年回来。有一天，我父亲开车带我去修理他坏掉的风车水泵。

我们开了几公里，在一小片树丛附近放慢了速度。一群看起来很野的狗冲了出来，在皮卡车门上跳来跳去抓挠，一个圆圆的女人打开一个脆弱的铁丝门朝我们走来，笑着冲着狗尖叫着闭嘴。是胡安娜。在接下来的几年里，我不断地拜访胡安娜，给她的动物拍照，听她讲述那些早已逝去的日子，她对生活和圣经的沉思。她会告诉我她所有动物的名字，它们的历史，并且在给她饲养的一头刚杀被屠宰的野猪去内脏的同时坚持说，如果你对动物给予足够的关注，你将能够理解并看到它们每一个都是独一无二的。

胡安娜家总是有很多来访者，他们中的大多数人都会默默地坐着喝着马黛茶，一言不发地离开。每隔几个小时就会有一辆汽车驶过，或者一个骑马的人会骑马经过并致以敬意。

最常来的客人是她成年的女儿 Pachi 和 Chicha，她们和自己的家人住在附近。他们会带着最小的女儿贝琳达和吉列尔米娜过来，一边准备着炸甜面包，一边喝马黛茶聊天。

Beli 和 Guille 总是在奔跑、攀爬、追逐鸡和兔子。有时我会拍他们的照片，这样他们就不会让我一个人呆着，不再把动物吓跑，但大多数时候我会把她们赶出画面。我对她们漠不关心，直到1999年夏天，我发现自己几乎每天都和她们在一起。那时她们分别是九岁和十岁，有一天，我没有让他们离开，而是让他们留下来。

亚历山德拉·桑吉内蒂，2009

I spent my childhood summers at my father's farm outside Buenos Aires. After the long highway drive and the dusty dirt road, as soon as we arrived, I would run to the front of the car and begin the delicate process of unsticking the crushed butterflies from the still hot radiator. Most of them would be terminal, but one or two would cling to my finger, slowly regain center, and eventually fly away, always leaving behind some dust from their wings.

I have two older sisters, but when I was nine, they were teenagers, existing in another dimension, so I would wander pretty much alone around the corrals, the sheds and the fields, talking to the horses and the cows, feeling sad for the perpetually frightened sheep, following my father as he made his rounds, chatting with the foreman's wife Isabel, looking for snake skins on tree branches, turning beetles right side up, and flying kites made from newspaper.

In the evenings I would cut up old New Yorker magazines my mother brought back from her trips to the US, and with those pictures I illustrated my own journal, "The Bumble Bee", which I would sell to my parents for one peso.

At night we would set up beach chairs, wait impatiently for UFOs to appear, and count falling stars. The only trips we would take were to Doña Blanca's place, where my father would bring tires to be fixed, and buy eggs, cheese and homemade jam. She had packs of dogs and puppies that would greet us jumping and clawing; sheep, goats, rabbits, ponies roamed loose, and heaps of animal bones, scrap metal, and old furniture were all on chaotic display. In the country, most places go from a dull quietness to an eruption of movement and noise when visitors arrive, so I assumed back then that at Doña Blanca's something out of the ordinary was always about to happen.

My parents sold the farm in 1981, and it would be a long time until I returned to the countryside. When I did, it was to their smaller farm to the south of Buenos Aires, and I was older, just back from a year studying photography in New York. One day my father took me along for a short drive to have someone fix his broken windmill pump.

We drove a few kilometers and slowed down near a group of trees. A pack of wild-looking dogs rushed out, jumping and scratching at the pick-up truck doors, and a round woman opened a flimsy wire gate and walked towards us, both smiling and shrieking at the dogs to shut up. It was Juana. I spent the next few years visiting Juana constantly, photographing her animals and listening to her tales of days long gone, her musings on life and the Bible. She would tell me all her animals' names, their histories, and, while gutting a freshly killed boar that she had raised, insisted that if you paid enough attention to animals you would be able to understand and see that each one is singular.

There were always many visitors at Juana's, and most of them would sit silently sipping mate and leave without saying a word. Once every couple of hours a car would drive past, or a man on horseback would ride by and tip his hat in salutation.

The most regular visitors were her grown daughters Pachi and Chicha, who lived nearby with their own families. They'd come over with their youngest daughters, Belinda and Guillermina, and chat as they prepared sweet fried bread and sipped mate.

Beli and Guille were always running, climbing, chasing chickens and rabbits. Sometimes I'd take their picture just so they'd leave me alone and stop scaring the animals away, but mostly I would shoo them out of the frame. I was indifferent to them until the summer of 1999, when I found myself spending almost every day with them. They were nine and ten years old then, and one day, instead of asking them to move aside, I let them stay.

Alessandra Sanguinetti,2009