window

Empty spaces

December arrives and the year ends. It sounds like a metaphore for life…and it is.

The end of the year brings loads of thoughts and considerations about things that really matter and other things that simply fade away, as they never even existed. Empty spaces are so poetic. It is time to make room for the new, emptying boxes, drawers, minds, hearts and souls of the things, feelings and thoughts that no longer have place, importance or use. We are getting one year further away from what was and approaching whatever else it will be. Letting go is not always an easy thing to do. Some of the things left behind can never be replaced, but they still need to be left behind. December is time to celebrate symbols and comemorate our capacity to love and reinvent, end and restart. December holds, besides many beloved friends’, my brother’s and my son’s birthday. One is forever missed and gone and the other one is my reason to carry on. December is not an easy month for me. But it is also one of my very favorite times of the year. With lovely smells and tastes like glöck, roast, cakes and cookies. It has sprinkled magic disguised as tiny bright lights and candles. Hot and cold. Extreme conditions, feelings and weather, according to where you are and how you feel.

December, for me, is a cozy empty space.

About windows and chairs

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Inquietação e paz
Cadeiras e janelas
Cortinas e chaminés
Noite, lua, estrelas
Coleção de pingüins.

A liberdade permite pintar (e viver) o que eu bem quiser.
A vida é cheia de escolhas.
Não há certo ou errado, há possibilidades.
E a pintura é o extremo da liberdade.
E isso é sempre, sempre bom!

Limite

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O fim do corredor
Não é o fim de todo o caminho
Nem o fim da casa
Ou o fim do mundo
É um canto onde se para
Descansa e pensa
Sobre os começos vindouros
Os novos trajetos
andanças,
Saídas.
É ali onde se lava o rosto
Se despe do pó
E se olha,
Com ternura,
O corredor vencido
A janela respingada de chuva
E tudo que ela guarda
Por tras do frágil vidro
A tiunfal escapada
A rebelde fuga
O pulo furtivo
A aventura escancarada
E até, quem sabe,
O despertar desse confinamento
A irresistível e irremediável entrega
Para a possibilidade
Para a imensidão.