The old peasant did not surround himself with too many things, shiny and dead. His objects were few, never only decorative, impersonal or inorganic. His hands were torturing the rough material, ennobling it through suffering. The hemp spun yarn, the wood, and the wheat end in the martyr object. Stories say that any apparently humble house, any domestic object has the power to save you from death. In extraordinary conditions the lance, the hood and the pipe of the young shepherd, the foreigner, whose name the song doesn’t mention, watch the death of the master left to their holy guard. Tragic happenings awaken the energy of peasant objects. Unsuspected power is born from profane appearances. A living museum, conceived against dead things, must confess to these old meanings without words.