Tenderness is a feeling, an emotion that arises from a gaze that uncovers or recovers gestures, objects, faces, colours, lights and shadows of a life, of many lives.
Tenderness is born in the home and is born from affection, it speaks with the language of the body and with the language of the soul, knows the nuances, the subtle colours, the words whispered, intuited even before than understood, it voices the silences, needs to brush lightly, to caress, to touch to give and receive the warmth, it is in no hurry, loves the contact and the wait, the sweetness and the melancholy, and the dream.
Tenderness strings together, like pearls, the moments of our life: the soft embrace of birth when the fingertips touch tender the tender body of a son and inside of us love becomes immense like a big lake without borders; feeling together, brothers or friends, one next to the other, close in a timeless instant; the enchantment every day renewed of the sharing of small gestures with the objects of our daily living and that make us feel “family” in a space we call home, inhabited by warmth and affection; the encounter with suffering that melts in tears and seems to bring away harshness and torment, leaving inside of us a sense of exhaustion that has the taste of sweetness.
Tenderness again shows through our eyes: the eyes of a child whose rapt gaze seems to look far away, towards a future filled with the magic and with the promises of many possible lives; the gaze of youth, enigmatic and pensive, in which desires and fears, ambiguities and certainties, meet and collide; the gaze of the man who has lived his life and can stare straight ahead of himself gathering in a sole moment, like in a kaleidoscope, joy, sadness, contentment, regrets, strength, security, while he retraces with indulgence the paths of his journey.
All of this we feel while we meet the faces and the objects that inhabit the rooms of an old house. And it is but the home the place where spontaneity can find its space where adolescents can talk to us from a faraway time, flowers, small domestic objects, handles with the faint colours, marbles that appear light like a precious veil, caressed by the bright light of a day of April, plates that tell us of many lives that ensue along the path of time until they compose a story of which we are all part.
Artist Beatrice Brovias´s mother about the exhibition of her daughter (text slightly adapted for the needs of this blog)