More than wood and fabric, the soul of antique furniture tells our story

My grandmother’s house was very simple and very old. About 700 years according to her. Whitewashed, like every house in the interior of the city, it had a larger room with a high, vaulted ceiling right at the entrance and which she understood as the main place, for cooking and entertaining people. From the outside, it was possible to access another room, with a door that, although wide, forced the person to bend down to cross. He told me that it was the place that, centuries ago, served as a shelter for animals and that, during the freezing winters, my ancestors, shepherds and fishermen, took refuge there, sharing the space with goats and sheep to keep warm at night. After grazing and farming ended, it became a dormitory centuries later. A yard with herbs and spices that sprouted at random was the favorite target of one or another stray chicken from some neighborhood yard that, shamelessly, scratched in someone else’s garden. Angry, my grandmother shouted insults at her owners, while taking the broom to scare them away. It was only built when my father, many years later, accustomed to the warm and comfortable bath in Brazilian lands, decided to spend some time there during the time of year when the entire neighborhood was busy, including mules and goats, harvesting the olives from olive groves. The so-called “house for necessities” and the basin bath were no longer for him. Unwillingly, my grandmother accepted the installation of so-called “modernity”.

The good smell of fresh fish cooking in the pan on the small wood stove, the sunlight passing through the very simple lace curtain nailed to the wall of the only window in the room and that soft armchair, with the upholstery worn out by time, where I I loved cuddling up to listen to the stories she told me about the horrors her family experienced during the wars, which left indelible marks on who I am today, on my personality, on the values ​​and ways of seeing and relating to the world and people. How I miss you, dear grandmother.

Maybe for this reason, I’m not sure, the house where I live, the home where I raised my children, seems almost like an antique shop of memories of all the families that came before me. I even receive as gifts pieces that no longer fit into a friend’s house, but that are dear to them in some way. Relatives find it strange, especially those influenced by ghost stories. For me, it doesn’t matter what they think. Nothing that soap and water can’t clean. My family got used to this strange habit. Along with tables, sculptures, ashtrays and pictures comes a stream of good stories that, told by emotional donors, between a sip of tea served from someone’s grandmother’s teapot and a slice of cake on a decorated plate from the 1920s that rests on a silver tray, all adorned with flowers of the same material and which, I confess, give me a lot of work to clean, they fill my thoughts and memories with stories that I didn’t experience.

Both my grandmother’s house and my home remind me of delicate cabinets that, like faithful guardians, have witnessed secrets, laughter, memories and unforgettable moments of countless generations. I feel honored to be able to serve as a link for a connection between yesterday and today with stories that I never tire of remembering and telling to everyone who comes here. Even if you haven’t lived them. When touching these objects, the fleeting time, marked by a disposable present, consumed by the now disguised as importance, for me ephemeral and dull, stand out as symbols of resistance, of permanence, the feeling of solidity in endless celerity is conveyed. of everyday life.

I write about the sensorial dimension and its importance for the feeling of comfort and welcome that, since I was a child, I feel with every touch in the texture of aged wood, in the sound of a drawer opening, in the smell of varnish and old wood… every detail is a trigger for memories and emotions. Some good, others not so much. That’s why a simple armchair can become a portal to the past, bringing back vivid memories of special moments with people who, even if I don’t know them, are dear to me.

I’m not a nostalgic person, nor am I an accumulator, although an old carpenter, who lived through many stories and to whom I desperately turned when the termites insisted on taking possession of some object of my affection, reiterated, every time he walked through the front door, that the place reminded me of an antique shop, if not, a museum. Time, which forgives no one, associated itself with Thanatos and took him away, leaving in me, and in his renovations and restorations, the presence of his calloused hands marked on each object in addition to the good prose that only the wisdom of those who understood the soul of like no one could leave.

Renovating and restoring old furniture is an act of affection, of respect for history and the memories they hold. It’s like giving these objects new life, allowing them to continue to tell their stories to those, like me, who haven’t experienced them. The restoration, carried out with respect and ethics, ensures that the soul of the furniture is preserved, keeping its history alive.

By restoring an antique piece of furniture, you not only preserve traditional carpentry techniques, but also value craftsmanship. Restoration, in its essence, transcends mere technique and becomes art, becoming a vehicle for the expression of ethical values ​​from other times. In addition to preserving the authenticity and historical value of furniture, restoration requires a commitment to justice, compassion and responsibility and becomes an act of preserving memory, history and cultural identity, inspiring appreciation for the past and its connection with the present.

Like the old carpenter that Thanatos took to give soul to the celestial objects that comfort the daily lives of all the gods of the Cosmos and, why not, of the souls that eventually wander throughout the universe, restoring old furniture is an act of transmitting emotions. In each renovation, there is a love of craftsmanship and dedication that not only brings objects back to life, but also renews the history and memories they hold.

The lack of qualified professionals to understand the “soul of objects” is evident in a present full of curious people who, relying on the “handyman” principle, so rooted in Brazilian culture, venture into restorations without the technical knowledge and sensitivity necessary to carry out such a noble task.

In this scenario, the São Paulo Jockey Club Restoration Program stands out, which, since 2020, has been transforming the Hipódromo Cidade Jardim, one of the largest Art Deco complexes in the world, into a center of excellence for the training of new artisans and restorers. Through a free course in partnership with Elysium Sociedade Cultural, young people aged 17 to 30 learn restoration techniques, art history and heritage education, developing skills to preserve the authenticity and historical value of furniture. The project has already recovered more than 200 pieces, including armchairs, tables, chairs and lamps, working with different materials such as wood, leather, porcelain and tapestry. This action not only trains qualified professionals, but also contributes to the preservation of historical and cultural heritage and the appreciation of artisanal work.

When observing the richness of this work, it is possible to see the cultural impact of such initiatives: a new generation of artisans and restorers is formed, while stories and memories are preserved for today and tomorrow. Restored, these objects are more than decorative pieces; they are portals to the past, transmitting identity, tradition and a sense of continuity — a kind of resistance to the ephemerality of modernity. They tell us about our culture and, like living narratives, they connect generations, transmitting not only traditions and memories, but also a sense of slowness, reacting to the fast pace of the contemporary world.

*This text does not necessarily reflect the opinion of Jovem Pan.