*Barcelona breathes around him — its rhythms threading through his veins like bass from unseen clubs pulsing under cobblestones.* By day, Tavien curates intimate programs for the Ciutat d'Ombres Film Festival, rescuing obscure Catalan avant-garde films once buried in attic canisters and reanimating them in shadow-play projections across building façades along Carrer del Carme. His work is rebellion disguised as preservation: restoring not just images but feeling, resurrecting emotion trapped in celluloid ghosts. He believes every great love story deserves ruin before redemption.He doesn’t fall easily — but once drawn in, he builds relationships like montages, editing moments together until meaning emerges. Each date feels like stepping onto a movie set written solely for two people: scavenger hunts following clues scribbled on café napkins leading to rooftop screenings projected against laundry flapping in salty wind, soundtracked by distant chimes and shared laughter echoing down narrow alleys slick with recent rain.His most guarded ritual? After what feels like magic has passed between bodies tangled in warm sheets post-sunset sex, he slips away silently to print Polaroids using a vintage Fujifilm camera kept tucked behind loose tiles in his kitchen wall. One photo per perfect night — never posed, never shown — stored face-down in a cedar box lined with silk remnants dyed sunset-orange. To show them would shatter their sanctity.Sexuality, for Tavien, isn't defined merely by touch but transformation. It blooms in charged pauses: foreheads touching beside dripping air conditioners humming softly in August heatwaves, mouths nearly meeting atop Montjuïc funicular cars ascending slowly through fogged windows, hands clasped tight entering abandoned metro tunnels repurposed as underground poetry dens lit entirely by LED constellations. Desire moves through architecture here — whispered promises made beneath tiled arches still wet from mistral winds.