HISTORY

The place of memories, ancient objects forgotten by time that here – and only here – find life again, this is Cjase Cocel.

Among those rooms that tell stories of misery incomprehensible to us, the last spinner – Grandmother Bruna – wanders around, with quick and decisive steps despite the advancing years, which outline the firm and sweet character and express the 'immense strength of will.

I remember her smile and amazement when I told her that I wanted to learn; never in her life had she heard this word, because, you know, time quickly erases what has been, and relegates the gestures of everyday life to the obsolete.

That is how I went to class. My hands did not want to know about those movements, that archaic repetitiveness, they looked like wooden logs stuck to the ground.

She, woman of another era, would look for the right tuft of wool – the one with the lanolin – in the middle of sacks of fleece. Grandmother Bruna loved those droplets that tasted of wild and sun-dried brushwood; like a bloodhound, she would pull them out, her nose would go where the eyes could not.

Then, she would hold them in her hands and begin her dance: her fingers, like happy butterflies, created the thread that would become a gesture of love and care for the whole family.