I asked Uncle Milton about the old photos he kept at the farm. In those pictures were the large houses, the same ones that are now ruins in the best part of Las Espinas. Those old, tall houses, surrounded by children who are now grandparents, and other familiar faces I never got to meet. At home, we have some photos from that time, small, black-and-white, like postage stamps. Now I look at them with my grandmother, trying to put names to the faces, to the places. It never ceases to amaze me to see her playing in that yard, which was more of a field, where she grew up. Her eyes light up every time I ask her about those days, and I guess, in a way, it helps ease the nostalgia of seeing what used to be her home now in ruins. I know she likes it when I ask about those times, and I enjoy listening, imagining myself living something similar someday.

When flour was scarce, they made sweet potato or squash bread. Before lunch, they always had soup. In the fields, they grew corn, watermelons, melons, beans, and potatoes. I asked Uncle Milton about the photos again. "Yes, I have them! There are a lot!" he said. They are still in the same box they were in when they came into his hands. No one knows who chose that box or who took most of the pictures. Our lineage holds secrets of men and women who crossed oceans to build a family here. In that blue floral box, tied with a worn ribbon, are photos of great-great-grandmothers dating back to 1910. I’ve never seen those pictures, though my mother has told me about them. Uncle Milton told me that a few weeks ago, a rainy day kept him from going out to work. He was stuck at home with nothing to do, and then he remembered the photos. He pulled the box down from the closet and spent the entire afternoon looking through them.

What I wouldn’t give to have been there, watching him, recording everything. I imagine him carefully studying each photo. His hair now white, his hands thick and warm, recognizing some faces, moved by others. The afternoon blue from the rain, the box blue too. The radio in the background. I wish I could have been invisible, sitting in a corner with my camera, filming Uncle Milton, hoping to capture the atmosphere of that moment.

 

About me

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My name is Josefina, I was born in August 1995 in the nostalgic city of Rocha, Uruguay. The stories of my family and their life in the countryside have been guiding lights throughout my life.

I grew up surrounded by the wisdom of my aunts, great-uncles, and grandmothers who lived on farms outside the city. In a way, I belong to those places where they grew up, places they shared with me through stories that I’ve always cherished. Each visit, each tale transported me back to those times, whether it was among the watermelon fields of Uncle Romeo or in my kitchen in the city, sharing mate with my grandmother. Though the years have passed and some of them are no longer here to tell their stories, their valuable legacy continues to color the corners of my memory.

For years, I searched for my vocation in Montevideo, but I found it in Piriápolis, when I studied Audiovisual Languages and Media. I discovered that documentary filmmaking was an almost perfect way to return to these stories whenever I wanted. I lived in different parts of Maldonado and was fortunate to visit other corners of the world, but a growing sense of nostalgia reminded me not to forget where I came from, pushing me to go further and save what was at risk of being lost.

Vitalicia was born not only to preserve my memories and our collective memory through creative documentation but also to continue creating new and valuable memories for our community.

Remember, create memories as refuges.