If you've been reading me for a while, you might recognize the words below. Before we start our new reflections and tips, I think it's important to leave a mark here of my history, who I am and how I got here, also as a courtesy to the newcomers. Allons y.

“No sooner had the warm liquid mixed with the crumbs touched my palate than a shudder ran through me and I stopped, intent upon the extraordinary thing that was happening to me. An exquisite pleasure had invaded my senses, something isolated, detached, with no suggestion of its origin. And at once the vicissitudes of life had become indifferent to me, its disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory – this new sensation having had on me the effect which love has of filling me with a precious essence; or rather this essence was not in me it was me. ... When did it come? What did it mean? How could I seize and apprehend it? ... And suddenly the memory revealed itself. The taste was that of the little piece of madeleine which on Sunday mornings at Combray (because on those mornings I did not go out before mass), when I went to say good morning to her in her bedroom, my aunt Léonie used to give me, dipping it first in her own cup of tea or tisane. The sight of the little madeleine had recalled nothing to my mind before I tasted it. And all from my cup of tea.”

– Marcel Proust, In Search of Lost Time

In his work In Search of Lost Time, Marcel Proust describes in details the moment when he dips a madeleine into lime blossom tea, triggering a process of memories that brings his past to life. The olfactory memory restores a key moment from the protagonist's childhood in Combray, a fictional town in France, awakening a series of visual, auditory, and affective memories.

"I grew up listening to my father tell me that he was putting together photo albums for me and my brother. He said that one of these days I would keep these albums in my own home. That seemed like a very distant future to me. Today, the greatest treasure I have are dozens of old albums that contain fragments of who I am."

My father, extremely nostalgic, loves to tell stories. Therefore, he dedicated himself to a project of rich construction of affective memories that would allow me to better understand my personal and emotional development. Although made by my father, the albums gave me authorship of my own story.

I flip through the pages and come across images that evoke feelings, textures, and scents. In the same way that Proust is transported to his past in Combray through a simple madeleine, the images documented by my father transport me to my childhood in Búzios and Tamandaí.

I am always in direct contact with the albums. Through them, I understand who I am, my way of being, why I do certain things in specific ways, my personality, my perspective. I also understand where my interests, passions, likes and dislikes came from.

My father also wrote short messages next to the photos as titles or subtitles that narrate the joys and sorrows of a father watching his children grow up. I hear his voice in this timeline, full of affection. The pages of the albums overflow with the love and care with which he built them. Today, the pages explode with the affection that defines the moments portrayed. My life with my parents and siblings is all documented - ready to be accessed in moments of nostalgia.

In his work, Proust also refers to the Impressionist paintings of his time. In a way, my father's albums also remind me of the most incredible works that Impressionism left as a legacy. The painting Water Lilies by Claude Monet, which is now in the Art Institute of Chicago, for example, serves as a starting point for this metaphor. When we look at the painting from a certain distance, we can observe the shapes and landscape that the artist intended: they are water lilies floating on a lake. It's almost simple.

If we get closer to the painting, the strokes that define the shapes blur and overflow onto each other. The brushstrokes blend together, each with its own unique colors and textures. It's like a ballet of different shades of blue, green, and pink. Each brushstroke contains its own universe, its own immensity - and without the individuality of each one, the Water Lilies would not exist. From afar, we see the drawing, and up close, we see the processes. The wonderful confusion of colors and strokes created by Monet results in a poetic landscape.

Similarly, the confusion of moments, smells, sounds, and images carefully documented by my father allows me to make sense of my history. From far away, I see a structured and coherent trajectory. Up close, I understand my processes. The construction of affective memories that my father made for me is my portal through time. It is the greatest legacy he could have left me.

With affection,
Maria Helena.