An analogue registry of a resistance, a surrender, and a clue to the ocean inside.

These photos were taken at my grandfather’s old farm in the countryside of São Paulo, Brazil, where I was born.

This house was where we spent the weekend with my grandparents. I arrived back there after many years to find that what was left of the house had been taken over by nature.

In the moment of surprise, I could not tell if all those childhood memories had dissipated in the collapsing roof or if the plants had consumed them. Either way, everything had changed. So I went to look inside.

Between the cracks, the left behind furniture and the broken pieces scattered across the floor, all was quiet. The walls were still blue. Plants were both hanging down and growing up the walls.

For a moment, all the walls evaporated, and in a curious light, I became the house.


In the freedom to be forgotten
I discovered distances

made of Salt and Light

In a room with no space for crying
I discovered a substance
called time.

In 2020 I revisited these pictures, whilst writing the poem that culminated with realising the book.

They came together as a reflection on transience, the watery qualities of time and a small homage to the beauty of falling apart.

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