The House, the Image, and Everything In Between.

Today I picked up my very first framed photos from the little art supply store near my house. I’ve been taking pictures for so long — years, really — and only now, at the grand age of 35, in 2025 (!), I finally did what I probably should’ve done a long time ago: I printed and framed my photos.

And well, this deserves a reflection. Because it’s not just about the frames.

I have my reasons for not doing it earlier — and no, they’re not excuses. Or maybe they are. Back at my childhood home (the house I grew up in with my parents), “beauty” was never a priority. What mattered was that things worked, that the house was functional, comfortable. Aesthetics were secondary.

We didn’t really have decorative objects, at least not intentionally. Maybe it was the exhaustion — my parents worked all day to provide something close to a decent life. When they came home, all they wanted was a hot meal and the company of the family: me, my brother, and my grandma. The next day, the cycle started again. And again. And again.

So no, worrying about what was hanging on the wall wasn’t really a thing.

Our first house in Franca was a simple little place — two bedrooms, a living room, kitchen, and a front porch. The living room walls were mostly covered in the drawings me and my brother made with pencils and crayons. I vaguely remember one actual picture frame — a photo of my mom, taken by my dad.

Outside, we had a huge backyard (at least through my child-sized eyes) with mango, banana, lemon, acerola trees… We had friends over, barbecues, cousins sleeping on mattresses on the floor, or squeezing into one of the two bunk beds in the room. I have beautiful memories from that house. Hours and hours spent under those trees. We were so happy there. But no, it didn’t have much “style.”

So I ask myself: Does a house need style to be cozy?

I always loved that house (and still love my parents’ current one). Even in the other places I lived after I left Franca, I never made style a priority. I’d visit friends and see their walls full of art, lamps in the right corners, plants in just the right spots, bookshelves full of stories. I found it all so beautiful. So intentional. I always thought, “One day I’ll do that too.”
But I didn’t.

Whether it was lack of time, money, energy, or just being overwhelmed by other “more important” things — paying rent, feeding the cats, replacing a broken broom, dealing with a mattress that made my back hurt, or a flea-infested sofa… Despite not decorating the spaces I lived in the way I wanted, I was never unhappy in them.

Still, I grew up with a mindset that didn’t really value “making things beautiful” — and I carried that. Only now do I see how much personality and comfort come from surrounding yourself with things that carry meaning.

I still believe what matters most in a home is the energy between the people who live there (After all, what’s the point of a beautiful house if the people inside are miserable?).

But… seeing my own work on the wall — yes, my art! (it still feels strange to say that) — giving space to things that hold good memories, that transport me to places I’ve been and loved — That, I’ve come to realize, is also a kind of comfort.

A quiet kind.
A deeply personal kind.
And very much deserved.