I had a friend who worked at Porcelana Irabia until they closed, and every time we went to a restaurant or a bar he looked at the mug and the ass of the dish to find out where the piece was made. I do the same thing when I go to the fairs of old things: I look where it is made, and I buy according to it or not. I'm aware that I could set up a small coffee shop with the cups, jars and sugar jars that I have. I give away some because I don’t have a place, but not everyone wants someone else to use them at some point. In fact, some are cracked, or the games aren’t complete, or they just don’t want something used by someone else. I often imagine the lives of others, how many things were said, how many confessions when drinking a coffee. I imagine when and how the pieces were broken, during a rage or when the stone was made. I put them in the closet and I put the cracks in the back. In fact, this is one of the things we often do in life: we don’t put the cracked side in sight and use it from the more beautiful side, even though we know that at some point it will break completely. Because what's cracked always breaks, sooner or later.