Seamos como somos: A week to inhabit Pride at Nômade Temple Madrid
Part I
There are dates you circle on the calendar, and then there’s Pride in Madrid—which is a whole different story: a collective shift in frequency.
As soon as summer kicks in, the city slows its pace. People stroll without rushing, terraces stretch conversations well past midnight, and music becomes an invisible thread weaving through corners, squares, and glances that otherwise would have never crossed. It’s during these days that Madrid remembers something essential: that freedom is claimed by taking up space in the streets.
With that feeling settling in, I crossed the threshold of Nômade Temple. I knew the lineup was packed, but I chose not to read too much into it. I wanted to walk in blind. To just let whatever was meant to happen, happen.
And it certainly did.
The mornings carried a distinct feel. Some started their day with a practice session, others simply sought a quiet refuge before diving into the city’s rush, holding still-warm coffee cups or catching five extra minutes of silence. In that first hour, Pride took on a different, almost intimate nuance: that of a community easing off the gas together. Celebrating is also that: stopping to catch your breath.
Then came the art.
Stepping into Pablo Pérez-Mínguez’s exhibition felt like shifting time zones. Dimly lit rooms, hushed footsteps, and right in front of you: a gallery of theatrical, painted, vulnerable, and radically free bodies. Photographs taken decades ago that still hurl the same uncomfortable, necessary questions today about what it truly means to show up unfiltered. Pérez-Mínguez captured a generation that turned freedom into their creative language; revisiting that archive in the middle of Pride gave every single frame a renewed purpose.
The best part was the surprise factor: you never knew what was waiting around the corner.
One day you’d stumble upon a makeup workshop where the mirror stopped being a judge and became a playground with no rules. The next day, the tables were set with water, brushes, and paper blocks. Nobody asked for artistic credentials; the point was simply to pause and translate a flash of Madrid into a splash of color to keep in your pocket.
And yes, there was also room to turn inward.
During the breathwork session, the city’s hum completely faded out. Then came an immersive meditation, inviting you to be present through the weight of your own body. Very different proposals bound by the exact same idea: inhabiting your own skin with the same ease with which we take over the city.
Even shibari found its place in a completely natural way. The ropes were there, sure, but the focus wasn’t the knot—it was the dialogue beforehand: trust, active listening, and consent articulated in every single move. The rope was merely an excuse to build a shared language.
As dusk fell, the energy shifted entirely.
One of the afternoons drifted into a listening session around a turntable and a finely curated stack of vinyl. We all started out seated, almost solemn. Ten minutes in, someone was already tapping their foot. A moment later, someone else stood up. Before we knew it, the exhibition room dissolved into an impromptu club where strangers ended up dancing shoulder-to-shoulder, sharing tracks like old friends.
That scene sums up everything. A room designed for viewing art turning into a spontaneous party. Some things, no matter how much you plan them, only happen when you leave room for them to unfold.
Part II
The afternoons carried their own rhythm.
We had a deeply moving live performance right in front of Pérez-Mínguez’s photographs. The songs seemed to extend the echo of the images; for a moment, it became impossible to tell where the photography ended and the music began. Everything flowed under the exact same narrative.
As night fell, the atmosphere took a radical turn.
The lights shifted, the music gained weight, and the space transformed. Some people showed up straight at those hours to burn through the night; others came from pulling a full afternoon following the exhibition or the morning practice. At that point, where anyone came from didn't matter at all. Everyone just ended up blending together without overthinking it.
Every session had its own distinct character. Some threw you onto the dance floor from the very first beat; others let the night simmer on low heat, until you found yourself in the middle of a packed crowd with no idea how you even got there. It was hard to tell who had just walked through the door and who had been there since dawn. And that was the beauty of those days: complete blur.
If I had to pick one moment, I know exactly which one it is: the ballroom.
Anyone familiar with voguing culture knows that long before it was a show or a competition, it was a sanctuary. A place to build community, claim the floor, and shout who you are through movement. For a few hours, that exact same force surged through the room. Every pose, every step, and every runway walk was a pure statement of freedom. Far more than a performance, it was a raw reminder of what Pride truly stands for.
Between one peak and the next, the default gathering spot always ended up being Café Libre.
That was where everything landed naturally. People flicked through a catalog while discussing the exhibition; at the next table, someone was debating the previous night’s DJ set; one group was gearing up to hit the town while another decided to just stay put. Conversations drifted effortlessly from one topic to another. There was space to linger. And in a hyperactive Madrid during Pride week, that felt like a rare luxury.
By the end of the week, I realized the exact sequence of the program had been completely wiped from my memory. What remained was the residue:
The cross-pollination between photographs and live instruments.
A conversation starting in front of a portrait and wrapping up three hours later.
A vinyl record bringing together a group of strangers half a meter from the speaker.
And the constant certainty that staying just a little longer was always worth it.
That ended up being the true backbone of Seamos como somos. Less of an event schedule, more of a different way to experience Pride. Grounded in pause, curiosity, and listening.
Because Pride also happens in those unscripted detours: when a conversation runs so long you lose track of time, when you walk in looking for a workshop and stumble into a community, or when a song makes two strangers end up dancing side by side.
The lights go out, the records slide back into their sleeves, and the mats are packed away. The city will gradually slip back into its usual groove, but what stays here is the shared experience and the quiet comfort of having shared a space where you could just be at ease.
And remembering that freedom is precisely about that: having places where you can simply be yourself.
