Enveloping colors
There are those who travel from destination to destination, projecting in their minds the fixed idea of the port of arrival, as if that would make it materialize faster. But there is a reason why teleportation does not yet exist: the magic of travel hides surprises and is sometimes as or more interesting than the destination we want to reach. It's the same with books. There are those who do not hold back and jump ahead at the end, tearing the veil behind the murderer at a stroke, and there are those of us who trust in the writer's hand, who at his own pace patiently guides us through the forest of the narrative, allowing us to enjoy the journey.
The alchemy that had worked the photo in my grandmother's book pulsed in me with every beat of my heart. I knew I was in front of something important, something that could potentially change my life. So, already in Rio, I decided to approach Petrópolis little by little, just as Elizabeth, Lota or even my grandmother would have done. That's why, when it came to renting a car, my first choice was a convertible, like Lota's, so that during the trip the noses would pounce on my field of vision and the wind would play with my hair, welcoming me.
A stop awaited me before leaving. I was looking for a talisman, a wish for good luck that Rio, with its noise, bustle and bossa nova, would leave me as a gift to accompany me on my quest. It was not difficult to find it. Walking through the downtown streets I came across the Museu Nacional de Belas Artes and decided to enter.
I almost overlooked it, despite its almost two meters high. Immense and enveloping. The oil brushstrokes, irreproducible in any photo, enveloped me in a whirlwind of textures and colors that transported me to another time, another life and another way of being. Candido Portinari had done it; he had captivated me with his coffee plantation scene. I imagined him in 1951, returning from exile, going to visit Lota and Elizabeth and, who knows, sitting down to dinner at one of those unforgettable tables where my grandmother might be among his guests.
I smiled. The green, the yellow, the salmon... I knew something good was going to come out of it. I took those colors from the painting and fixed them in my mind, happy to wrap myself in a magic I still couldn't find an explanation for. Maybe later I could turn it to linen or velvet and pay homage to those unique and unmissable brushstrokes. I left with that same smile, ready to take the road to Petrópolis, to Lota and Elizabeth and, above all, to my grandmother.