MY LAND IS NOT MINE

Jute, Arraiolos Wool and Wood Stool
Tapestry: 110x160cm | Stool: 17x26x15,5cm

2019-

My land is not mine. My land, where I come from, has houses of all colors, tall and narrow. Where I come from, the cold river embraces the houses. The streets are warm of people and homesickness inhabits old and damp houses. The tallest tower watches over the consumed city. I have nothing left here. The months have dried up the source of the energy within me. Where I come from, I don't know anymore.
The machine that moves me shakes the peace of where I am going. Works at full steam to find my corner in the yellowest field, in the smallest and most humble house. I don't long for it, I long for what I want and what I am. I leave here, in my land, those that are most valuable to me. But it is what it is. The need to escape the hustle and bustle is real. Artist's dream, to reduce societies to distant points. Find in the cross stitches the burning that runs all over my wrist to the artery protruding from my proud and raised neck.
Where I go, to where I go, the sun ends at the bottom of the endless plain fields. The gold of the land is the warmth of the people of the simple village. The blue of the sky fades into the whitewashed house, merging with the frame of the simple home. The green of the holm oak shade cools my nostalgia of where I am. Where I go the days are long and the dreams end early. In my house I will hear the most dragged and Portuguese-speaking voice that only fado has. In my chair there will be the blanket as small as my baby body. At my feet the pattern of the land rug. I will feel on my skin the breeze of frozen time that runs through the windows. Outside, pennyroyal and coriander inhabit the garden. I will live like this.
Oh, where do I go, where did I came from. I will not be able to bear the difference of the places until the pace of tradition settles down. Only the warm heat of the sun on the coldest morning will hold me. Only the dry wheat to scrape on the palm of my hand will take care of me. It stills missing a lot, but I'll be where I want to be.
My land is not mine, it belongs to those who live there.

Change my location, find roots somewhere, take ownership. In Alentejo there is a slowdown in the pace of life, there are long waits, calm. The delay in the transition leads me to the creation of a tapestry full of symbols, which represent my roots, thus creating an antithesis between my origin and my land (for which I intend to change). Through a tradition that does not belong to my land, I remember and honor my family, my traditions.

Sitting on my mother's typical embroidery stool, on this rug, little by little, I am making part of my story, while I wait for my future to be what I always wanted. Embroidering while I am waiting, as the woman from the small land waits for the one she loves.