Imagine another country, a world where minds like Carlos Saura, creators of universes and voices that echo through time, applaud his art in every form. A place where art is celebrated loudly, where people cry, cheer, or miss what resonates, and where silence is replaced by genuine admiration.
Picture not Spain as we know it, but a utopian land blessed by a guiding foreign hand, inspired by Goya or Picasso, a space dedicated to this improbable nation. It would feel like an island of cinema, painting, and photography—a place where young artists can study everything from the absurd to the extraordinary. A realm where he can grasp why he embraces every kind of music with a personal bond to musical emotion, a seventh sense guiding his soul.
Now imagine Carlos Saura at home, in a room just steps from the train to Madrid. A room filled with relics, cameras, self-portraits, and lighthearted jokes; a TV room housing a treasure trove of films and photobooks, where he watches his dogs and other creatures thrive on screen and page.
Everything feels grand except for that one room where interviews are given, or where he reads and writes novels. Nearby, a massive table stands as a showcase for visitors, while the works prepared for exhibitions lay scattered like a calendar torn open, aging into a mirage in an almanac of years.
Carlos Saura: The director who best captures flamenco on screen
Sometimes the scenes are real. He would dine with his daughter Annawho, his guardian angel, or with his son Antonyor, sharing wanderings through fog and cold in Collado during winter, relaxing with wine to spice a stew. One memory lingers—an episode that frightened his family during a season of war. A war that Spain could not escape, including the tragedy of Lorca, one of its most cherished hopes. Reflecting on that war, he told me through the distance of continents, “I’ve lived the war, and the fear of another looms.”
He felt it in Madrid, Valencia, and Barcelona, explaining that his father served as secretary to the Republic’s Minister of Finance. He traveled with the republican army, witnessing bombings and ruined houses, the presence of death amid a city’s moments of peace. He recalls Manuela Mena, former Madrid mayor, sharing similar worries, and Saura confessed, “I’ve endured war, and the fear of a new one never truly leaves.” He urged vigilance when political lines shift, when the Church and the Army move, fearing where that path could lead.
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He trusted that the thoughtful minds of his country would act so such events would not repeat. “It’s over,” he said, describing the Spanish war as a brutal conflict among brothers. The ghost of those times haunts many of his films, documentaries, photographs, and other arts that sustain him to the end, as if he kept encountering a world that didn’t quite match his own. His work bore witness to blood, murder, and hatred.
“When you stop, you die,” he said, touching on health and the fragile future. He lived fully at home, cultivating a life as a farmer and actor, a man who sang, watched the clouds, and mimicked the hesitations of dogs, always waiting for the seasons to change and bring a new song. He found joy, yet never ceased to fight against mediocrity.
The legendary name of Spanish cinema, Carlos Saura, has passed away
He faced death with a quiet acceptance that surprised no one, having battled pneumonia shortly before turning eighty-nine. The final years found him turning his gaze toward Lorca, a project that history sometimes sidesteps, drawn to its own shadows. He admired a childlike spirit, dazzled by what surrounds him. His connections with people of varied loves and loyalties offered intriguing, human complexity. He spoke of not caring whether someone loves a man or a woman, but cherishing the constant thread of love and passion that animated him. Lorca’s murder, to him, was an act of senseless brutality, a reminder that violence disrupts the fabric of life in cruel ways.
A quiet hand had underlined his thoughts on death, and rereading those words reveals the enduring tension in his voice as he travels through ideas, seeking a true essence for his work. The drama and joy of his creative life refract into today’s world, inviting reflection and even a hint of mysticism. His artistry—driven by an overwhelming gift—could have flourished even more had the times allowed, but he remained a force that defined contemporary cinema with energy and love for what he did.
He was born into this country and received everything it could offer, yet somehow never craved a thunderous ovation that time could not reach. The air of his era carried his vitality, his devotion, and his relentless pursuit of expression. A biography folded with humor and sorrow, a continuous, restless voice, a vivid image of a fearless, modern artist who left a lasting imprint on film and culture.