Kilda is a small-great woman, first reflected image or mirror for many other women like her, and another different ones. Kilda is the origin and matriarch of a Brazilian family; and with her, a few important things in my life were born and other ones will die. My grandmother ages, as slowly as ever, resisting with enormous vitality and with the same enthusiasm with which she has traveled all over the continent, or custodies her jewelbox-home, her garden with plants watered every morning, her absurd collection of objects and beings full of tenderness, that she still dustes every day. Kilda is Kitsch, not with that pretension, but as Klemm said, “bordering on genius and greatness”. At home, its small museum, I see, I discover, I surprise myself feeling many things, and every day I spend away, I'm sorry for not being in those small details still incomprehensible, rediscovering and old fashioned taste, an unfathomable treasure of reminiscences, impossible brushstrokes that I need to portray as an impulse, as pieces of my remembrance, memory gestures of everything that Kilda has been and still is.