The blue house with quince in the window that I found in Viscri woke me up from my childhood, from that sacred, mysterious, only place of mine, where I felt beautiful, immortal, loved and protected and who imprinted on my becoming. The simplicity of life in a village in the heart of Transylvania, where every season has its purpose, was revealed to me the moment I saw this image. In those dark, wrinkled, deep, wrinkled grandma’s earrings, which kept the quinces arranged symmetrically arranged at equal distances, I saw the passage of time, the order of the seasons, the cycle of life. We have seen spring in turn, when bees pollinate flowers and turn them into fruit, then the summer that keeps them in the heat of the oven, to grow bathed in the sun that paints them in its bright yellow and finally autumn when we pick them delicately to keep them in the window, to brighten and perfume our short, gloomy winter days. Carefully arranged so as not to touch the windowsill of the old whitewashed house, the ten quinces made me think of the sky on a summer evening where you can find, if you know where to look, the stars that make up the constellation of childhood.