As the marina is left behind, the icon of the city – the caravel – on the hands of a mysterious woman rises as the warning to the entrance on the historical old part of the town.
Walking the streets is being filled with icons of the holy spirit age and the project of the world to be… the age of the heart
In a little street, after a narrow turn on the main way – there hides the always pleasant and bizarre “praça da Erva” – Erva square. Here, two old ladies prepare the fires for the meals of the evening honoring one of the biggest Portuguese festivities – St. Jonh. There is the Sheppard and his altar with the offerings of old… “Le roi est mort, vive le roi”
Turning to the right – following the classical Portuguese narrow streets of granit stone pavement, we find the “Sé” – the sede of the religious region – and the flags of the five wounds, the seven castles conquered to the enemy, the armilar sphere… those who have ears listen…
The sede, the solid building of the faith, it’s strong rocks and harsh nature threatening… still…
The entrance is “ogival”, a familiar shape from which any of us came in to this realm and started the adventure of time. The “Rosacea” - the place where the light fills in the temple of stone as in that point in the uterus where the miracle of light happens to fill the stone with presence of the divine awareness
From the “vesica pisces” – two circles join forming with a point in its middle, to this temple of old – all homage to the great god, the only one that could love as a mother enduring solid and truthful as a male…
In this vagina kind of entrance, with jesus as a golden button, the black and the white – the light and the shade – define the dual nature of the hermaphrodite which will be…
Medieval houses, with long forgotten writings on their granite walls, guard the way back to the main square as the afternoon leads to it’s silent and peaceful end with streets getting filled with breeze and air
Shapes of old, shapes of ever – where it is as important the parts filled with windows as the parts filled in blank… windows or a cross – always a way to look beyond… from within to the light…
As the day gets in to an end, the square is filled with echoes, the allegoric shapes gave room to pigeons, the piazza with tables and coffee is empty – just the last rays of the setting sun fill the melancholic space with vibrant life that vanishes in the mists of eve…
Just the artists who sell arts with no bund to lord or land keep their stand as all the rest retreated to their moebius circles of existence. A child who passes and an artist who says hello while the town goes in to the sleepiness of a Saturday evening starting soon
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