“Porch”, oil on canvas, 120 cm X 120 cm
Emerson talked about each person having their own particular wonderful thing. For many years I thought painting was my own particular potential. I lived for painting, I was obsessed with it. When I was not painting I was daydreaming about future images, composing them in my head. I would paint all the time, alongside cooking the meals and helping the kids with their homework. To sleep among my paintings was beautiful. Seeing them first thing as I woke up. The smell of turpentine. The colors and shapes forming on the canvas bit by bit. The triumph of finishing a painting, hanging it up on a wall. Seeing it growing a life of its own but still reflecting me. Then giving it a name. Actually Bob gave the paintings their names, he is very good at translating my complex stories into two or three words.
I am a realist painter. I paint the things that interest me. Everyday objects. People. Interiors. Landscapes. Fruits and vegetables. Beautiful things. Then I compose a story with all or some of those elements. I love telling stories.
In the 80s and 90s realist painting was unfashionable, at least in Portugal. One must not paint beautiful objects or you were labeled square, conventional, and the traditional was scorned by the critics. The public was brainwashed to believe that “art” was only far out and extreme forms.
I only paint recognizable images, beautiful ones. I always thought that if I could add a touch of beauty to the world, what was wrong with that?
“2 2 Tango”, oil on canvas, 130 cm X 146 cm