My father was only 32 years old when he designed the first glass office tower in Brazil. It was 24 stories above our city of São Paulo, and it was known as “Pele de Vidro” -- “Skin of Glass.” It was the golden age of architecture, a time of great hope and optimism. Our new capital, Brasília, was designed by Oscar Niemeyer. It was the era of bossa nova, Cinema Novo, and everything felt possible. The construction of the “Skin of Glass” began in the early ’60s. Tinted glass was imported from Belgium, marble from Greece, and it was the first curtain wall designed in Brazil. Much like a curtain, the glass was separated from the structural frame of the building, filtering the light and the weather. People were totally fascinated by this modern building, and they would gather outside to watch automated doors open and close. My father wasn’t concerned only with the aesthetics, but also the comfort of workers, so he designed this open, light-filled environment that was kept cool by central air-conditioning, which was a novelty at the time. I didn’t know any of this until recently. My father died when I was 14. We were very close when I was a child, but as years passed by, I started forgetting, and my memories faded. So I decided, after 20 years of living in California, to go back to Brazil to learn all I could about him. And I took this journey by making a film that I call “Skin of Glass.” My father designed over 280 projects in his short life. The “Pele de Vidro” was his masterpiece and the work he was most proud of. And the glass walls of this building became a mirror, reflecting the glory and turmoil of our beloved Brazil. The building was barely finished when the military staged a coup in 1964, and the time of optimism and hope had a sudden end. Years later, the government took over the “Pele de Vidro,” and it became the headquarters of the federal police. So that place of openness and light became the place of surveillance and censorship. But it was also the place where international investigations took place, including the one of Josef Mengele, Hitler’s “Angel of Death.” Mengele had escaped to South America, and was living in hiding, and the investigations -- the global investigations that led to identifying his remains were led by the federal police inside the building. In 2003, the federal police left the building, and it was abandoned for many years. I was amazed to learn that in 2008, Brazilian and French architects learned about the building and hoped to create a vibrant cultural lab. They tried to fund the project, but the markets crashed and the project died. So in 2017, I finally saw the building for the first time, and I was eager to get inside my father’s creation to understand him as an artist. And I couldn’t have imagined what had come of this great work. It’s now occupied by 400 squatters: homeless families, workers and immigrants. I wanted to meet them. I wanted to understand their experience of living in the building. I wanted to understand how they came to live in the building. I tried to get inside the building, but the leaders of the people who occupied the building wouldn’t let me in. They were afraid of outsiders. My only window into life in the building was photographs that were taken by student photographers years before. Then my journey to my father took an unimaginable turn. (Video) (Helicopter hovering) (Sirens wailing) (Fire blazing) Seven people died and hundreds lost their home. The city mourned the human tragedy and the destruction of its cultural landmark. For me, there was another layer of grief. I felt I lost my father again. The survivors set up an encampment near the building, and now they spoke to me about their lives. Ironically, only after the building was gone, I could understand the role it played in so many lives. In my journey to make sense of this new chapter, I reconnect with those who had shared my father’s dream. I got a call from Pablo Georgieff and Philippe Rizzotti, the architects who hoped to turn the building into a cultural lab. They had been invited by the São Paulo Architecture Biennial to make a tribute to the building by drawing their cultural lab live. And at the end of the tribute, Pablo wrote a letter to my father to express his gratitude. And he said, “Dear Roger Zmekhol, you gave us a space to amplify our dreams. This is our turn to give you a gift, and this drawing is for you.” The “Pele de Vidro,” even in its absence -- the idea of it, the memory of it -- continues to be a reflection of Brazil, past and present. Which I love because even though it’s an empty lot of rubble, it’s still filled with dreams. (Portuguese) Muita obrigada. Thank you very much. (Applause)