Caraíva...its remember me Venice, a white butterfly of wing or sands settled in full sea of the south of the Bahia, Brazil.
When I saw her, it was Friday and soon I remembered Robison Crusoe, the Indian who I always wanted. Yes. To sleep there in those huts, with the Caraíva River in the head, and the feet in the sea was like to float dreams at the sea - and the imagination wins the continental world, the world of the men of Bush.
But what more she touched me in that Venice still Indian was the reflected houses in the river, that was joined there to the sea. No lions of Venice nor palaces of doges, nor bridges of the sighs of the imprisoned men without reflected presence on water. Not even jail. Nothing. Only beauties coconut palms and sands of the different waters of the river and the sea and - those huts that won the annihilating modernism. But, perhaps for pure will, it reflected Venice to me, those lights there, and colors, balancing in the water, delicately.
What more I would want to paint? in this America without cumbre.
Caraíva, anti-cumbre of Americas, November of 2005.