A Mosaic of Forgotten Frames

First of all, allow me to introduce myself. I’m not very good with words; I’m more about images. So, I might appear to be a bit verbose or confusing. Force of habit from my line of work. I apologize in advance for that. But I also kindly ask you to read through to the end. It’s important to me. And, I believe, to you as well. We’ve shared so much over the decades! I don’t think it’s fair to leave without a little farewell. And a request, if it’s not too much to ask.

First of all; oh wait, did I already say that? I did, didn’t I? My goodness, how do I do these things? My memories are filled with images, never with words spoken or written. I’m an element of light, of explosions of colour, and the subtlety of shades of gray. I didn’t mean to imply I’m too direct. Of course, there are nuances within images, silly. My art flourishes in the in-betweens, in the past movements, and the intention of action.

There I go again, losing my way. I was talking about your surprise. Yes, of course, it’s mine too. Modernity is wonderful and enchantingly destructive. But it’s kind, I mean, it has good intentions. It respects those who, like me, had their moment of glory. I, myself, once arrived as something new. Although I didn’t take anyone else’s place. I’m part of creation in its raw state. I came from nothing and offered my best. You know that. But, as with everything, it passed. Our moments of intimacy have passed. I can still see our first recording together. You looked at me with a hesitant smile, full of doubts. We stared at each other for a few seconds. Neither of us really knew what would come next. And so much did…

The thing is, the new kids got quite moved by my story. I think they realized they’re trapped in the same cycle. Except, in their case, it won’t take almost three decades to reach the point I’m at now. Poor things. If I could ask, don’t treat them the same way. They’re children, spoiled, deceived by the extreme fragmentation of contours, colours, and illusions. They live for immediate results, with no suspense. Have you noticed how expectation nurtures affection? While we wait, we desire. And just imagining, we think of each other, building castles framed by a deep blue sky. Ah, that’s how we fall in love.

These kids gave me a voice or rather, a way to express what I feel. But I won’t reveal everything, everything, you know! We have our secrets, secrets I wouldn’t share even under torture. That would be the greatest betrayal. I think betraying the future is less serious than betraying the past. The future is just a project, and it can change, end, or never even exist. But history is made of commitments taken moment by moment. If we made a pact, let’s honour it until we decide to change the story. Until then, fidelity is a physical principle, like the reflection of light. It must be respected.

Well, I’ve said all this to explain that these kids found a way for me to talk to you differently. I don’t know exactly how it works, or how long it’ll last. I don’t understand any of it. Not only that, but I feel a little silly, talking here all by myself. If this is some kind of prank, if I’m just rambling, they’ll have to answer to me. Oh, they will! Although, honestly, what could I do to them? Nothing. Patience. What could an old fool like me do?

Speaking of age, I’ve been feeling cold here. This part of the house is new to me. I don’t even know how they found me. I mean, how the kids knew I was here, down in this dark corner. It’s always so dark, and darkness throws me unbalanced, as you can imagine. I spend my time waiting for a little sliver of light coming from a window in the corner. When it arrives, I know another day has passed. In those moments, I think of you. What are you doing? Who are you with? I don’t feel anything bad, don’t worry. I hold no resentment. I think there’s no graver tomb than turning thousands of wonderful things into eternal wells of bitterness. What I feel is just saudade. And saudade is that, isn’t it? It’s bittersweet. It touches and distances.

I remember well the farewell to your parents. I would never compare myself to them, of course. Imagine that. But when they left, I realized how everything changed instantly for me. Somehow, they were there, reachable under the sunlight. And then the light had to come from within. I think loss feels like that, I mean, when we must ignite an internal source to see. In life, the brilliance comes effortlessly from looking. By the way, I must say I’ve been without brilliance for quite some time. Without colour, too.

On the other hand, how beautiful it was when the children arrived! I get emotional all over again. I was there, in all of them. The arrival of life is the most magical moment I’ve ever witnessed. I’d disconnect from everything else that usually concerns me. Have you ever imagined being a newborn baby? I have; every single time. Only a vast silence mattered. I’d put myself in those tiny eyes, leaving the warm darkness for the cold light. So cold. I’ve always thought that was wrong, just so you know. Let me register my protest. Being born is clay, sunlight, wind, and a mother’s touch. I know the whites, the blues, the pale greens. But forgive me but being born is red, yellow, orange. And warm. I never managed to change those colours, but I always wanted to, you know? Look at that, what a coincidence! Talking about the birth of children, and suddenly light slips through the corner. If I could, a tear would fall.

Another day. Unfortunately, far from you. Oh, what sadness!

Light makes me feel so alive. I live for it, work for it, paint with it. From my time down here, I’ve learned that darkness isn’t so bad, at least not for me. Because it forces me to look inward and find good things. And believe me, I find plenty. I prefer sunrise to sunset. Both are beautiful, I know. But when the sun rises, combing the sea and tearing the sky, it feels like things are reorganizing. Let me confess something: you are my love, there’s no doubt about that. But the sun, ah, the sun! It is my master. My strength depends on it, and through it, I transcend my soul in homage.

I’m wandering again. My goal with this message is to ask you something. Before it’s too late. I’ve noticed a lot of movement upstairs. Since I can’t see, I imagine the worst. So, I need to be convincing. You must know it’s me behind these words. Of course, you’d never believe a random note on a piece of paper. My hope lies in our story. In my images, which are nothing but a grand mosaic of your life.

How can I be certain you’ll know it’s me? Well, I could mention the castles along Scotland’s roads, the kids’ rugby game in Botswana, the beaches of Cancún, the windmills of Holland, the sunset at Arpoador in Rio de Janeiro. I could bring up Coral Gables at night, the car in motion. Naughty you, huh! Who else could know about that evening in London, on your way to a work meeting that would change your life, for better or for worse? Of course, only I know these things.

But know that I paid attention to everything while hanging around your neck. And I don’t believe it’s enough to speak here about the photographs we created together. The image that connects us forever is the untaken portrait. We are accomplices in averting our gaze from a scene that reveals itself only in our memory, yours and mine. We sinned together one evening outside a shopping mall in São Paulo, late at night. The children playing, their little bellies pressed against the pavement. That photo we never took, and we never wanted to remember it again. Futile, of course. Images always return.

Yes, it’s me, speaking from down here. Here’s my request: you don’t need to touch me, dream of me, or include me in your adventures. You don’t need to see me as a friend as before, nor share your thoughts with me. The kids are great at doing that. Just place me on your shelf, in the living room, next to your parents’ wedding photo. Let me watch how your life unfolds. Even if we never create new portraits. Let my lens meet your eyes, just occasionally. I promise each of those brief moments will be infinite for me. And for you, too.