Disenchantment precedes a time change in the artist's creativity.

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Always trying to do what I do not know how to do: to master the painting.
Virtuosity is a pretext.

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Anxious nights thinking about the next day's painting. Every morning I open the door of the studio and see yesterday's work. Disillusionment.
Dying every morning to find a new beginning.

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How difficult it is to show what I do! There is no parallelism between creativity and exhibitions.

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It does not count to be in the vanguard in one's twenties. It's more of a challenge later. Then, being silent is worthy. But I really don't know.

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I love the gleam of the sea in winter, being possessed by it.
What if the moment of our dying could be chosen?

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What endures over my life used to be often what I esteem less, what I pay less attention.

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Each painting has its own time. Impatience works against me.
I have to learn to be steady.

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Oh Sea,
each minute you create a different landscape.
And there is no landscape without seeing;
there no painting without seeing.
Oh Sea,
I am afraid of what you hide. What would it be like to die in your arms?
I have to go further, not be limited to inmediate impressions.

Divine peace.
Harmonious pleasure of immeasurable boundaries.
Theory of happiness

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My perception of the essence of Beauty is that it also exists in the most simple, and even unattractive objects.
But I do not pretend to know what Beauty is. A fugitive image? A welcoming dwelling?
No one of the world´s endeavours is strange to me; for each one of them cloisters something supernatural within.

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What's important?
The damned tenderness,
the magic,
the sea,
you.
No. Nothing is necessary.
Starved,
fragmented, difussed, will my spirit remain?
My mind is lost.

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I believe in emotion.
I believe in beauty, in the goddess of Beauty.
The sad goddess.
I believe in the concrete scattered in a landscape without end.
I believe in the Painting as Itself.
I believe in the painters that we are.
I believe in Pessoa.
I believe in pain.
                in what is sad.
                in homecooking.
                in the mistery. Will I be able to incorporate it?
I believe in what is not understood. In what simply is.

I must believe in myself.
I am positive.

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Not knowing what to paint.
I have to know.
I drink a glass of red wine, holy and self-renewing painting, from within the weave of your canvas.

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Depression arises at daybreak,
while anguish turns me pale for a cobalt blue,
just because of its price.

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So many pieces of junk venerated, installed, catalogued. So many other genuine ones just squantered.
It is a perpetual failure.

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For how long, God, must one work with full passion, soul, madness to arrive nowhere.

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It is so simple...
I have to fight for emotion.
What is it to be a painter today?

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The Pompeian Red wholly seduces me.

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Try always to feel pleasure in purity.
Authenticity, that is ones of the keys.
I have to be an authentic painter.

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I like fragile things and the appearances that wrap them with mystery.

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I make paintings that pertain to Painting; that keep the relationship between Man and Painting, Man and Beauty, Man and Emotion.
I want my paintings to live together with people, to hang on the walls, to be objects of desire, contemplated or even ignored.
Primitive pleasures. Intellectual pleasures.

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Never abandon Emotion.
Understanding is not really necessary to be touched by a painting.

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I feel trapped in a dead-end. Sometimes I remain so obsessed by a particular way of painting that I become obstinate and I lose perspective. Then I should back and rethink.
What disillusion. What lack of zest for everything.
Nothing happens without motivation.

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When someone buys a painting in my studio, he carries away the passion and feelings I left only inside the painting. That is how I prefer it.
I would desperately like to know the anonymous buyers.

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My head is empty. I do not know what to paint. I am wondering if I should continue painting in the way I always have.
I have to find a topic.
Theme is the problem.

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I need motivation.
I need an aim.

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I realize that what I did in 1995 was more solid. Then I was more free. Then nothing constrained my mind. That trip to the South coufused everything.
I should rescue my naiveté.

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Examine all forms of seeing to learn from them.
Be apart from the world.
Live in seclusion to do unique work.
To do it otherwise would make the work obsolete.

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Walk towards the mistery.
Oftentimes I am so obvious.
Let me be driven by the illogical; abandon myself to intuition.
Keep some doors close. Vagueness.

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At times I feel that my physical and mental energy declines. Or not? Is it just depression?
Too much yearning.

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Alone. Always alone in my studio. I think of art as the product of loneliness.

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