Today, It Was Free

I was photographing the Pride march in Mexico City when this young woman gladly stopped and posed for me. I saw her smile and the way she presented herself to the camera, but I was concentrating on making the photograph. I did not stop to read the sign she was holding.

It was only later, after I uploaded the file and looked at the image, that I read the words: “Bésame, hoy es gratis”—“Kiss me, today it’s free.” I had photographed an invitation without realizing that I had been invited. And no, I did not take her up on the offer.

She was not the only person carrying that message. I saw both men and women with similar signs throughout the march. It was playful, open, and completely at home within the spirit of the day. For me, the march was a celebration of being free to express yourself, no matter what that expression looked like. That freedom deserves to be celebrated. It was also a very amusing day, and this photograph still makes me smile.

The woman holding the sign stands near the center of the vertical composition and looks directly toward the camera. Her floral headpiece, pink clothing, and handwritten sign create an immediate concentration of color and gesture. The sign extends toward the right edge, making its message both a physical object within the scene and an invitation directed beyond the frame.

A second woman stands to the left, her sideways glance creating a quieter counterpoint to the central subject’s direct engagement. She does not address the camera in the same way, but her presence prevents the portrait from becoming isolated. The interaction remains embedded within friendship, movement, and public space.

Behind them, the crowd rises through nearly the entire frame. Rainbow flags, clothing, vendors, and participants form a dense field of color and activity. Colón allows that visual complexity to remain. The background identifies the portrait as one expression within a much larger celebration rather than a private encounter separated from its surroundings.

Freedom of expression is sometimes discussed as though it belongs only to declarations, arguments, or serious acts of resistance. Yet freedom also appears through play: in clothing chosen without apology, affection offered without shame, a handmade sign lifted above a crowd, or a stranger willing to smile directly into a camera.

The invitation in this photograph was both specific and larger than itself. It offered a kiss, but it also expressed the right to decide what affection could look like and how openly it could be offered. Around her, thousands of individual expressions occupied the same public space. No single person represented the whole celebration, yet each added something necessary to it.

Colón did not understand the sign until later. Photography often works that way. The camera records more than the photographer can absorb in the instant of exposure. A gesture, expression, or sentence may wait inside the image until time and attention allow it to be seen.

The missed invitation gives the photograph its humor, but the freedom behind it gives the image its lasting meaning. The moment passed without a kiss, yet it did not disappear. It became evidence of a day when people gathered publicly and claimed the right to show the world who they were—seriously, joyfully, and sometimes with an offer that expired before the photographer realized he had received it.

Today, It Was Free enters the People collection as a portrait made during the 2018 Mexico City Pride march. The archival record preserves the wording of the sign, the artist’s account of the encounter, and the larger public celebration surrounding the central figures.

Within the Photography Wing, the work contributes to Colón’s continuing observation of strangers who briefly acknowledge his camera. Unlike a concealed candid photograph, this image contains direct participation: the subject recognized the photographer and chose how she wished to be seen.

The work also preserves a meaning discovered after the exposure. Its place in the collection rests partly on that delayed recognition—the photograph revealed an exchange that the photographer himself had not fully understood while it was happening.