No Meu Tempo, o Casamento unfolds from a simple question I asked my grandmothers as I prepared for my own wedding: how was your wedding day?


From this question emerged two distinct recollections — Teresa, 85, remembers every detail; Isménia, 90, searches her memory through fog. One keeps her wedding alive through precise gestures; the other holds only a photograph, now fading.


In this film, their voices weave through images of hands at work, of fabrics being handled, sewn, touched. I sew, my grandmother Teresa sews — our gestures echo across generations, quiet and persistent. The film follows a clear narrative thread through their words and recollections, yet the visual language — of sewing, of textures, of pauses — remains open, suggestive, unexplained. A short video from my parents’ wedding appears briefly, as does a fleeting glimpse of my own.


No Meu Tempo, o Casamento is not a film about marriage, but about what is inherited and what is left unsaid. It is about the delicate transmissions between women — through fabric, voice, ritual, and memory. In what they remember, and in what they forget, my grandmothers hand me something I cannot name, but which I try to hold in images, in silence, and in thread.