Manuel de Oliveira's music is not a promise. We happen to find ourselves on a clean day, on a wide plain with the jewelry of silence. He extends a landscape, but does not advance. An immediate horizon opens up before us, a staircase without fatigue. We are taken to temples of untamed gypsy climbing plants, Jewish, Muslim, artists and bohemians.
As a gift, he offers us his intimate places, perhaps not all visited, but we know how little it matters. Because after Men, identity is not just the place where we are born. It is also where we have never arrived and look forward to go, without needing to explain why we belong there.
We are always in between, yet to arrive, still to complete. Manuel, like no one else, makes incomplete music in its completeness - I say: his music happens with the listener. Nobody here is alone. The encounter is the realization of what is most singular in each one of us. We are called to exist.
In a breath, we are taken to Argentine tango, making a slow curve, leading us to Piazzolla's sigh, at the gates of the sun, deep, from the caves of Granada, into the warmth and the Flamenco. We are taken to the mouth of Paco de Lucia's guitar, with little spoons of new beginnings with ancestral potions, into the womb of the Portuguese Fado.
We arrive at the labyrinths of Jorge Luís Borges without the clutter of days, with the map of desires. On the journey, we give ourselves to undress the inauthentic to rediscover ourselves, with the other. Here, in Entre-Lugar, we are free and light. We see the coal of thoughts becoming a black swallow.