At Casa Oxente, we open our doors not only to artworks, but to memories. In the gatherings, soirées, and conversations we host, there’s always a moment when silence takes hold — a pause so that words can settle.

The following text was read at the opening of Tira-gosto with Manuel Mendonça, and was born as a personal — and perhaps unfinished — attempt to answer two simple yet difficult questions: Who am I? And what is Casa Oxente?

It’s a personal story, marked by memory, loss, rediscovery, and transformation — much like the story of Casa Oxente itself.

Publishing it here is an extension of that act of sharing, so that these words may reach those who couldn’t be with us, and continue to echo among all those who build homes through affection, listening, and remembrance.

The House on the Mountain

One day, when I was a child, an aunt invited me to a painting class.

I was afraid of her, but I said yes — I really wanted to learn to paint.

In my mind, I would paint a Wonderful House on top of a green mountain.

The sky would be blue, there’d be a bright yellow sun, and the sea below.

On the first day, the teacher said:

“Today, you’re going to paint little painting squares.”

And that’s what we did. Squares on the second day. Squares on the third.

By the fourth, I didn’t go back.

That house began to fade. It was lost. Forgotten.

Years later, I found myself in a maid’s quarters at the back of an apartment in São Paulo.

That wasn’t a home. It was a room to sleep in. I remembered my childhood project, unsure if that house could ever really exist.

Time passed. I got married. We had a dog, a daughter…

And without realizing it, I had been building that house all along.

Life was happening, and I had neither the time nor the awareness to notice what I was creating.

In 2020, I realized it had been months since I’d spoken to a dear friend.

I tried to call, sent messages. Nothing.

I searched his name online. What came up was: “murdered.”

My spine went cold.

And the pain — what to do with it?

I turned to art. To photography.

And one day, I took a self-portrait: I was crashing violently into a swimming pool.

It was the image of my friend—or maybe of myself.

I could have been him.

Just one more queer man from the margins, lost.

Like so many others.

But the day I took that photo, I found the door to a house.

I opened it and found my way back — to many houses. The homes of my great-aunts.

The ones who sheltered and protected me.

If not for art, I would never have returned.

So… who am I?

What is Casa Oxente?

Casa Oxente is also a space for commerce.

But we don’t just sell art.

We sell narratives.

We sell perspectives.

We sell points of view.

Here, you can also pay by listening.

With affection.

With memory.

We come here to remember those who didn’t always have the chance to speak.

To look at a piece and think: “That reminds me of a story…”

Whether joyful or sorrowful.

I can’t explain Casa Oxente in five minutes.

I just know it feels like a grandmother’s home. A great-aunt’s home.

A place where stories stay alive.

All I want is for you to leave here enchanted — not just by other people’s stories, but by your own.

As Viviane Mosé said: "We will only be loved if we are loveable.”

So let us be loveable. Let us be gentle. Let us be naive.

May we turn the whole world

into a house on a mountain,

with a blue ocean at its feet.

Thank you.

by Wilame Lima
(Read at “Tira-gosto with Manuel Mendonça: Art Within Everyone’s Reach”, May 15, 2025)