Dorian Ulises López Macías

Seba Acampante: First of all, thank you, Dorian. I wanted to know how you perceive yourself on an artistic level. How would you describe your work if you were to give a brief introduction?

Dorian Ulises López Macías: Well, I always say that I'm a street photographer, what's known as a street photographer in English and around the world. I'm a street photographer, a documentary photographer, and I've specialized quite a bit in portraiture. But within photography, I also do fashion photography. I've developed a sensitivity for playing with clothing and working with models.

So, yes, my photographic work is divided between fashion photography, commercial photography, street photography, and portraiture. And the exhibition we're seeing today revolves much more around that last part, doesn't it?

This exhibition is entirely about that universe, which is, let's say, the universe that's most authentically me. It's where I'm simply myself with my camera, which is my favorite companion. I always say that my camera is my wife. Going out, traveling, and walking with my camera is the most magical thing in the world to me.

And what you're seeing here is the result of many years of going out with my camera, walking, searching for beauty, meeting people, and traveling. This obsession with going out and photographing the streets also became an obsession with getting to know my country, specifically my country.

Because what you see here is a collection of more than 15 years of traveling throughout Mexico, trying to understand it more deeply, which, at the same time, means understanding myself more deeply.

And ultimately, enjoying it more and celebrating it.

All of this is very celebratory. It's a celebration of the place where I live.

SA: I've been trying to connect those ideas because traveling also has something to do with interpretation. It's a way of interpreting things, isn't it? It's about how beauty is interpreted and how your travels lead you to explore that more deeply. And my question relates to something I've heard you say when describing your work. 

You describe it as a way of questioning systems of representation rather than simply documenting identity. So I'd be interested in understanding that a little more. What is the difference between identity, representation, and documentation?

DULM: Yes, I think that, ultimately, everything begins with documentation. But the focus is very much on a fracture, a divide, if you will. As a colonized country, and I think this is something that affects all of Latin America, although I'm Mexican and I'm speaking specifically about Mexico, I know that this fracture exists throughout Latin America. It has to do with classism and racism directed toward brown skin.

Ironically, especially in a country like Mexico, where the majority of the population has historically been brown-skinned. Particularly over the last several decades, skin color has become something that determines social class. It also becomes a kind of mental framework for determining beauty, defining what is considered beautiful and what isn't.

And my work tries to demystify that from my own perspective. I always say that everything is beautiful. But specifically, brown skin and mixed heritage, mestizaje, strike me as something extraordinarily beautiful, something incredibly fortunate.

And that's where the focus of my photography lies. It's about recognizing that fracture, but not focusing on the pain.Instead, I focus on the beauty that emerges from that fracture.

SA: So does your project, Mexicano, function as a kind of magical archive rather than a traditional photographic series? At what point did you realize that you were constructing a system of images rather than simply taking photographs?

DULM: It was more than 15 years ago when I started going out and taking pictures. I didn't study photography. My formal training is in graphic design. I was working in the editorial world as the creative director of a magazine. But the camera had always been with me. The camera has always accompanied me.

And eventually, I reached a point where I bought myself a camera and started doing this thing of going out into the streets and taking photographs. The truth is, there wasn't any particular intention behind it other than taking pictures and enjoying the process.

I always say that photography is something inexplicable. Like art itself, it's an inexplicable need that we photographers and artists have to capture images. So that practice of going out in search of images led me into the streets of Mexico. And I reached a point, I think about 15 years ago, when I began looking at what I was documenting and realized that I was documenting that fracture.

And it was a fracture, a wound, that also existed in my own heart. Because as a Mexican and as a brown-skinned person, I carried that wound myself. I didn't consider myself beautiful. I had grown up with the idea that being Mexican was a misfortune, that being of mixed heritage was a misfortune. And so I reached that point about 15 years ago when I said to myself:

"Wow, what I'm observing is my own wound."

And I'm healing through that process, through observing my own wound and, at the same time, being so expressive in revealing the beauty that truly exists. The beauty in something that, for so long, seemed undeserving of being called beautiful. So it was about 15 years ago that I realized this.

And that's when I began approaching my photography much more consciously. Because it had started as something very unconscious. But when I looked back at the things that attracted my attention, I realized that this beauty had always fascinated me. I had always been drawn to the beauty of my elementary school classmates and my family.

I remember having thoughts as a child where I would say to myself: "Wow, I think my classmate is really handsome." And then I would question myself: "But why do I think he's handsome if he has brown skin?"

And it took me many years to answer the question that little boy had been asking himself. It wasn't until I was in my thirties that I finally understood.

Of course he's beautiful. And it's precisely his skin color that makes him even more beautiful. A beautiful achievement of evolution, if we think about ourselves as humans, as the animals we are.

SA: And now you know that you're beautiful.

DULM: Now I know that I'm beautiful. Of course, you still have to fight against the things that were instilled in you. But absolutely, my self-esteem is in a completely different place now.

SA: Your photographs shift attention toward bodies and aesthetics that emerge from everyday Mexican life. What does the street reveal about beauty that institutional culture tends to overlook?

DULM: Well, I think the beauty it offers is undeniable, isn't it? It's undeniable. It's everywhere, at least through my eyes, through my camera. It's everywhere. I go out into the streets and come back with two thousand photographs of everything that caught my attention. So I think that's what the street reveals: that beauty is everywhere, and that we need to open our hearts.

Going back a little to this wound, and to the ideas and beliefs I grew up with, which I think many Mexicans have grown up with as well. I remember when I started expressing to my friends and university classmates what I found attractive. I became popular for it. That's what they would tell me. It sounds horrible, but I became known as someone who loved what they considered ugly people.

And over time, I started telling them, "You have to open your hearts." I think that's what these photographs reveal. We simply have to look with an open heart to find beauty, because beauty is everywhere. Beauty exists in physical appearance, yes, and in skin color, but also in everyday life, in people's creativity, in the way they dress, and in the expressions of love that exist on the streets.

The street itself is an inexhaustible source of beauty. So I think what's needed is an open heart, because that's what the photographs reveal. Set aside, just for a moment, everything you've been taught, everything you carry with you, and open your heart.

You'll discover an incredible amount of beauty.

SA: What interests you more: the moment an image is captured or the moment someone else assigns meaning to it afterward?

DULM: Definitely the moment I take the photograph. As I've said, what I enjoy most is the experience of going out and being with my camera. There's an incredible dialogue that a photographer develops with their camera. It's about walking and walking, being accompanied by it. You become accomplices, and you develop a dialogue with the camera.

When I encounter someone who allows me to photograph them, that moment is incredibly exciting. It's a beautiful encounter, filled with emotion.

Ultimately, I'm photographing and searching for beauty, but discovering that someone trusts me, that they're giving me their time, and above all, giving me their trust, is something incredibly beautiful and moving.

For me, the most beautiful part of this entire project has been the process itself. Being able to travel. While putting together this exhibition, I kept thinking, "Wow, how fortunate I am."

I've been able to travel, to walk, to meet people. I'm incredibly fortunate.

So I would definitely choose the process over everything else. I think that even as an artist, it's the process that heals you. It's wonderful when people appreciate your work. It's wonderful when they connect with it, celebrate you, and when you have an exhibition.

All of that is amazing, but I feel like it's secondary. What truly matters, what holds the greatest significance, is the process of creating the work. That's where you really understand.

SA: Having been there, in that moment.

DULM: Exactly.

Because before taking that photograph, I had spoken with him. We talked, and by that point, he was already my friend. And then he said, "Let me go take a dip." So imagine being there, on the beach, with my camera, meeting people. Ultimately, these photographs are snapshots, literally like postcards from moments I've experienced.

SA: Yes.

DULM: The photographs remain as postcards, almost like travel postcards. But in reality, they're not postcards of travel. They're postcards of stories, of encounters. And what's really interesting to me is when someone looks at one of these photographs and tries to imagine what was happening, what circumstances led to that precise moment when I captured the image.

SA: There's something spontaneous and playful that comes through very strongly in your photographs. And my question relates to that. How important are humor and tenderness when approaching subjects that carry deeper social or political significance?

DULM: Well, I think they're important because they allow the human being to stop being a mannequin and become human. And human beings have all these different nuances, don't they? It's something very natural. When I encounter a playful scene, it's incredible precisely because it's playful. When something is bittersweet, that's incredible too.

There's no artifice. It's the theater of real life. And I think that brings you closer to what you're seeing. It's no longer simply an image of a beautiful person, like an advertisement for shampoo or something like that.

It becomes something you can relate to. You don't just understand the subject; you also begin to understand the context in which I'm taking the photograph. And the image becomes more expressive. So I think it's very important.

Ultimately, my eye is always focused on the human being and whatever emerges from that person. And sometimes that's what you find. I don't discriminate between experiences.

There are beautiful things, sad things, nostalgic things, and very sophisticated things. But there's no discrimination.It's about surprise. The surprise of that theatricality of nature, of what exists, of life itself.

SA: The beauty we see in Mexicano also seems deeply connected to dignity and a sense of belonging rather than perfection. How did photographing different regions of Mexico transform your own understanding of beauty? You've already touched on this in some ways, but perhaps we could explore it a little further.

DULM: Well, yes, this has been incredibly transformative for me. Truly transformative.

I was someone who grew up in the 1980s. I grew up in Mexico, in a small town. And the information I had, the ideas I was surrounded by, were very much along the lines of: "How sad. What a misfortune to have been born Mexican, to have been born as myself." So ultimately, this work has allowed me to reconcile with all of that.

But it has also helped other people reconcile with themselves. When I started publishing these photographs on Instagram, the most common messages I received were expressions of gratitude. People would say things like:

"Wow, I had never seen myself this way before."

Or people would tell me:

"Now, when I walk down the street, I see beautiful people everywhere."

And it's been incredibly beautiful to share that experience I've had with myself with other people. To see it become a shared experience. Making peace with who we are and, above all, celebrating who we are. Ultimately, I believe that the more we celebrate who we are, the more we'll care for Mexico. And the more we'll care for one another.

Because if we don't have love for what Mexico is, well, that's already one of the things we're missing most. So I feel that this reconciliation with our country can, in some way, inspire people to want to take better care of Mexico.

SA: And to think we almost skipped over this person. That was really beautiful. 

Thinking about Mexicano as a reconfiguration of perception, you're constantly reshaping the visual imagination and the way beauty is perceived. Do you believe the project could ever truly be finished, or is its incompleteness essential to its meaning?

DULM: Well, I've always said that I'll never stop. It's an archive that will never be complete because, eventually, I'm going to die. And I feel that until my very last day, I'll still be photographing Mexico. So, for me, it's an archive without an ending.

It's an archive that began and that will eventually be continued through other eyes, through other people, perhaps students. It will continue. But as far as I'm concerned, I don't see an ending. Just as there was never really a defined beginning, there won't be a definitive end either.

SA: Working with an archive involves memory, but also a certain power in how that collection is shaped and directed. Who do you imagine as the future audience for the Mexicano archive, and what would you hope they understand about this particular moment in Mexico's history?

DULM: Actually, I think that's always been one of my objectives.

At one point, while walking through Mexico, I remember thinking about how this project could become an archive. Some of my greatest influences are the Casasola Archive and Romualdo García. The Casasola Archive, on one hand, was a collective of photographers dedicated to documenting Mexico. They documented the Mexican Revolution and many other important moments in the country's history.

Their objective was precisely that: to create an archive of memory. And Romualdo García did something similar. They've always been among my greatest influences. I always imagined that this project would become an archive that could help people understand the transition from the analog paradigm to the digital one.

Because when I first started photographing the streets, people didn't carry cell phones. The internet already existed, but we didn't have it in our hands. And now everyone carries a phone. Even when I look at my earliest photographs and compare them with the ones I take today, I can see how people's clothing has changed.

But I can also see how their perception of themselves has changed. And that's documented, too. You can see how globalization entered Mexico and transformed the country. It's a very specific moment in human history, and particularly in Mexican history, that has been documented through this archive.

I've always believed that this collection will help future generations understand what we were like, but also how we experienced this transition from the analog world into an intensely digital one. From living without constant access to information to carrying a device that offers a window into the entire world.

Something that completely transformed everyday life.

And that transformation is documented in these photographs, almost obsessively. One of the things I find fascinating is looking through the archive and seeing how cell phones gradually began appearing in people's hands. And then, eventually, they became part of people's outfits, almost an extension of how they dressed.

There was a time when they simply weren't there. So that's something incredibly important to me. I think it's one of the most valuable aspects of this archive. Being able to see how Mexican people have changed. How this transition unfolded. And it really began happening in the 2000s. That's when you start to see these transformations taking place.

How Mexican society began to change.

SA: And for you personally, throughout this process of documenting Mexico for more than 15 years, using different mediums, how has your relationship with immediacy and the ritual of photographing the streets changed?

DULM: That's changed, too. I think, for me, it involved understanding many things and growing as a photographer. When I first started going out into the streets, I was thirsty to photograph everything. I wanted to document absolutely everything.

I would stop people anywhere, even in the middle of traffic, just to take their photographs. But now I've become a much more patient photographer. I've even become the kind of photographer who enjoys simply observing without taking a picture.

Allowing things to happen. Before, I wouldn't have hesitated to walk into a scene and interrupt two people kissing because I wanted the photograph. But now I take my time.

Or rather, I allow the scene to unfold and let the moment remain in my heart. So I think I've changed as a photographer. But the world has also changed significantly in recent years. The way you approach people and the level of care you need to exercise have changed.

In fact, I've sometimes thought that street photography might eventually cease to exist. Because people are now very conscious of their image and what can happen when that image travels beyond its original context.

That's something that didn't happen in the same way before. For example, when I'm photographing in places like the United States, people aren't as willing to let themselves be photographed. It's more complicated.

And I think part of that comes from understanding how people's awareness has changed. There was a time when people didn't really think about where their image might end up. They were much more open to being photographed. But now there's a greater resistance to it. People's perceptions of themselves have also changed.

Before, I think people weren't nearly as conscious of their own image. Now they're much more aware of it. So I've changed, but the circumstances have changed as well. And the way I approach people is different now. I've become a more deliberate photographer, so to speak. I take more time before making a photograph.

SA: I completely understand that, because I experience it myself. The idea of photographing with your heart, of allowing a moment to exist without necessarily capturing it. But there's also something that makes taking a photograph inevitable. There has to be some kind of trigger, something that makes you say, "I don't care, I have to capture this." What is that trigger for Dorian? What is it about a particular moment that makes it impossible for you to resist photographing it?

DULM: Well, it's magic, isn't it? It's incredibly difficult to describe it or reduce it to some kind of formula. But yes, there are things you simply can't resist photographing. What's happening in front of you is so magical, so extraordinary, whether it's a face or a particular moment, that you just can't let it pass. But even now, sometimes when something truly magical is happening, I can allow myself not to photograph it.

Because before, as a photographer, I used to feel incredibly frustrated whenever I witnessed something extraordinary and didn't have my camera with me. Or when I couldn't get my camera out quickly enough. And eventually, I learned that it was okay.

The moment had passed, and nothing terrible had happened. So now I think I've learned to let those moments go. Even when something incredibly special is happening, I no longer feel frustrated if I don't capture it. I simply let it pass.

And I say to myself, "Let it stay in my heart."

SA: Your work exists between intimacy and public visibility. How do you navigate the responsibility of showing someone while still allowing them to remain, in part, unknown?

DULM: Well, I think I navigate that responsibility by making sure people understand that they're going to become part of an archive. At a certain point, this became a project specifically dedicated to reclaiming and celebrating the beauty of brown skin. So whenever I photograph someone, I always explain that the photograph is part of a larger effort to reclaim the beauty of brown skin. And people have been happy to collaborate.

For me, that understanding gives me a kind of permission to move forward. There's a shared awareness of what these photographs are trying to accomplish, and the person being photographed has given their consent to participate.

So that's how I navigate that responsibility.

SA: There's something about this reclamation that you communicate to your models and the people you encounter. It's rooted in a reconfiguration of what we consider "Mexican," or what we understand as Mexican identity. When you first began this project, what did you feel needed to be reinterpreted within the idea of Mexican identity? What was the primary motivation behind saying, "This deserves to be reclaimed"?

DULM: I think what I began experiencing, and something I consciously told myself through an internal dialogue, was that I shouldn't be afraid of anything I was photographing. It was about saying, "Let's photograph things exactly as they are."

Wherever I encounter someone, that's where the photograph will happen. With whatever sunlight is available, whatever shadows are there. It's about not being afraid of anything I'm photographing, because that's the context in which it exists. And at some point, I realized that this was also something that was missing.

Not being afraid. Not being afraid of the image of what Mexico actually is. Not turning the subject toward a prettier background. Not repositioning someone into more romantic lighting.

Instead, confronting what's there. And I felt that this was something that didn't really exist in photography, particularly in the photography of my country. It was about confronting reality head-on, taking the bull by the horns, and accepting things exactly as they are.

Without disguising them. Without turning the camera toward something else. Wherever the image exists, wherever the subject is, that's where the photograph happens. So it was about losing that fear of what was visually in front of me. Because there's also a school of thought in photography where certain things simply don't fit within the established conventions of fine-art photography.

Off-center compositions, harsh downward sunlight, or the direct overhead light of midday. Those things are often considered undesirable. But for me, it was about not being afraid of any of that. I think that was something that hadn't really been documented.

Not being afraid of the Mexican image.

SA: Absolutely. That's excellent.

I was actually worried that my question might be a little redundant because we'd already discussed the beauty you recognized in your classmates when you were younger.

But you've taken it in a completely different direction, one that also involves photographic technique.

And I think that adds another layer of value to the project.

It's something I was noticing almost unconsciously while looking at the work, but if you hadn't pointed it out, I don't think I would have fully recognized the richness of that rawness.

DULM: Yes, exactly. The rawness.

It's about forgetting technique, forgetting romantic lighting, and forgetting the established standards of what constitutes great photography in order to capture an image.

And paradoxically, that image becomes something very, very Mexican. Very transparent. There are no tricks or artificial devices. It's simply about being where the subject is, where the image is, where the moment is. That's where the photograph happens.

Because it's about the moment more than the photograph itself. I don't even necessarily look for beautiful photographs. I'm searching for a beauty that exists within. And sometimes the resulting photographs happen to meet certain technical standards, but often they don't.

In fact, when I first started looking at my own photographs, I struggled with them.

I had to separate myself from the traditional teachings of photography in order to embrace my own images. Because they were photographs with unconventional framing. Crooked photographs. But ultimately, you're running, you're moving, and you're trying to capture an image.

Sometimes you have only a single second to take the photograph, and that's it. Or suddenly, the image is happening beneath the harsh overhead sun. Or you're in near darkness, and all you have are a few highlights. And for me, that was also part of the process: letting go of what the traditional school of photography had taught me.

Although, of course, I never actually attended photography school myself.

SA: There's something I really love about your portraits. You can feel a sense of complicity, almost as though each photograph is a collaborative work rather than something extracted from a situation. And that leads me to my question: How does the presence of the camera transform the relationship between you and the person being photographed?

DULM: Portraits are definitely a form of collaboration. Something very, very special.I feel that, as a photographer, I also transform when I pick up my camera and go searching for images. It's as though we all wear different masks, and photography becomes the mask of my profession.

As a photographer, you have to speak in a certain way, explain yourself, and sometimes immediately understand the circumstances and context of the people you encounter. So, of course, there's a kind of interaction that takes place between the photographer and the person being photographed.

I reflect on this quite a bit because people give so much of themselves to my portraits. But I also feel that what I'm photographing, what we're seeing, is someone posing for a photograph. When, in reality, that person is looking at me. Ultimately, what we're seeing is someone looking at a photographer, looking at a camera.

It's interesting because when we look at the final image, we see a person. But we rarely stop to think that what we're actually seeing is someone looking at a camera and a photographer.

Someone thinking about their own image, thinking about the photographer, and thinking about what they're creating together. There's something incredibly magical about that interaction.

And that's one of the reasons I find photography so extraordinary. We forget that what's really happening in that photograph is that the person is looking at the photographer.

So what people are giving me is their image as they look at me. And that's something very beautiful. Very, very beautiful. Those eyes are looking at me.

I'm looking at them. And there's something almost ironic about it because, especially with photographs at this scale, if you get close enough, you can sometimes see me reflected in their eyes. What we're actually looking at is one person looking at another person.

And that's something magical about portraiture, particularly when the subject is looking directly into the camera. Within that single image, there are two people looking at one another.

SA: That's wonderful. And thinking about repetition, because earlier today I heard you mention that you can return from a single walk with as many as two thousand photographs. I imagine that when you're engaging in something so repetitive, it can almost become meditative. There's a kind of ritual in that process. What would that meditation look like, if it exists? Or perhaps it's almost a kind of visual hyperventilation, if that's even a term.

DULM: Yes, that's interesting. It's a dialogue. It's a kind of companionship with the camera. You go out and say, "Let's see what we capture today. Let's see what we encounter." And there are always surprises. Of course, you enter a kind of trance, a loop. Because ultimately, there are always people crossing your path, things happening all around you.

But what's special is that whenever I return home and start looking through the images, I always find myself saying, "There was this photograph. There was this portrait." Out of the entire dance, the choreography I performed that day with my camera, there are always moments worth holding on to.

But it's also as though I'm practicing. I didn't go to photography school, but I always say that the street made me a photographer. Because ultimately, I'm constantly practicing. And I still feel that way. Every time I go out, I feel like I'm going out to practice.

Practicing how to handle the camera, how to capture the photograph I want. It's an exercise. It's like going to school, like never stopping your education. And what's wonderful is that, at the end of the day, you almost have an exam.

You get to ask yourself, "How did I do today?” or "Let's see how today's photographs turned out." or "What special moments emerged from today?"

For example, I'm obsessed with never deleting any of my photographs. Even the overexposed ones, or the ones that didn't turn out. Because every single one of them feels important to me. I'm incapable of deleting a photograph. Because it's part of the exercise of going out with my camera and taking pictures. And eventually, each photograph becomes a memory.

SA: Well, I think that was actually my last question. I have a few others, but in some ways, I feel you've already answered them, and the conversation has unfolded very naturally. But perhaps there's one more thing I'd like to explore. Thinking about this entire practice, this almost self-taught process, do you feel that your way of seeing has evolved toward something more raw, something increasingly detached from academic conventions?

And how does that compare with the expectations you had when you first began? How would you describe evolution, or even involution, however you prefer to think about it, in the way you see? How would you describe your relationship with looking today, stripped of expectations, compared with the expectations you had when you first picked up a camera and decided to take photographs?

DULM: Yes.

Looking back, the camera has always been with me, ever since I was a child. I had cameras when I was little. Point-and-shoot cameras. And I was always the one taking photographs of my family. I was the kid who was constantly running around with a camera.

Eventually, my father gave me a professional camera. And I started experimenting with film and going to have my photographs developed. Even though I was still very young, the practice began to become more conscious. And yes, in those early days, there was definitely an ambition to make my photographs grandiose.

To search for the perfect photograph. The perfect light. All of those things. So there was that pursuit. And then, of course, there was my education through watching a lot of cinema. I feel that my images are also very cinematic. Later, I went to graphic design school, where the image plays such an important role.

And that's when a certain formal education began to shape my understanding of photography. Not necessarily rigidity, but photographic formality. There are even established formulas for what makes a perfect photograph.

It has to contain certain elements. In academia, there's a lot of discussion about what constitutes a perfect photograph. Sometimes they'll tell you, "This photograph by Cartier-Bresson is perfect because it has this and this."

So I had all of those ideas in mind. But then I also had to confront my own personality. I'm a much more spontaneous person. And I also have certain difficulties with attention.

So trying to put all of those rules into practice while taking a photograph became very complicated. And eventually, I started telling myself, "Well, this is going to be my style. However the photograph comes out, that's how it comes out."

Ultimately, it's about not overthinking.

It's about focusing more on the objective and less on the technique. So, at a certain point, it became very natural for me to say, "That's it. I'm letting go of the school. I'm letting go of the technique." And instead, surrendering to who I am.

And in the end, it's been wonderful. Because I've started to notice that my photographs have developed a recognizable identity. People even tell me, "When I see one of your photographs, I know it's yours." And I think, "Wow, I don't even know how I do that myself."

Because all I really did was give myself freedom. I let myself go. And that's what my practice is about. Not being afraid. Picking up the camera and going after the image without fear. Without worrying whether the composition is off-center. Without worrying about anything.

It's simply about pursuing the image. And afterward, I'll find out whether it turned out well or badly. But there's something beautiful about that. Because that freedom has become an element of the work itself. Something people can recognize. You can see it and feel it in the images. And I think it makes them lighter. Less calculated. Less controlled.

I don't know. That's how I feel.

SA: Yes, absolutely. That fearlessness becomes visible in the boldness of your photographs. It becomes your signature, your identity. That sense of freedom and confidence when taking a photograph is reflected in the images themselves. And it also comes through in the ease of the people you photograph. In the trust and camaraderie that develop between you. It's beautiful. I think that's everything. Thank you so much. I'm going to take a little portrait of you with that artwork in the background.

DULM: Absolutely, at the end.

SA: That's great. Thank you, brother.

DULM: Thank you.