The first thing that comes to my mind when I think about Brazil it’s tangerines. They are a recurrent theme in my mother’s stories of her youth, and from the smile on my father’s face when they come up in some tale, I suppose they are part of his stories too.
It is hard to get rid of a powerful image and I never succeeded in getting rid of the thought of tangerines.

I returned to my parents homeland many times, to those lands that almost defy the perception of land itself with their endlessness. The soil always looks like it wants to merge with the clouds in a blessed greeting there. Every time I would come back, it felt like an initiation, it always felt important, like a conjunction between stages of my growth and as time went by I felt I was becoming fond of an important interrogation: “Was it here that I was supposed to be born and raised?”

The only way to answer that question for me equates to keep observing and knowing that region, analyzing it, not trying to understand it but to carve out a niche where I have a role, in a never-ending storm of feelings that wanders from a hemisphere to the other.

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