This lady, whose name was Rosa Joaquina, had no children but she was mother and grandmother. In 1918, the epidemic here called pneumonic killed my motherís parents when she was still a baby. It was this lady who nursed, educated and gave my mother all she had to give. In 1960 I was in Macau, when, there so far away, without someone to share the sorrow, I had notice of her death. I adored that holy lady whose image remained fixed into my memory. To comfort myself I tried to reproduce it: Sited down on her footstool, I saw her in front of me. As her face appeared through this canvas, I remembered her enchanted histories and I seemed still to feel the smooth caresses of her wrinkle hands. Mixed with the ink I have made this painting, are a lot of my tears. To her memory here is my homage.           Back to previous page