I do not have a story about me. Stories require structure, and I have lived in collapse. What I leave here are fractures—signals from beneath the surface. Not facts, but traces.

I was born in '69, under a number that coils back into itself. I have known the ones who walk through fire, who carry silence like a weapon. I have known the devil, and worse—his absence.
The sounds, the words. the colors and lines, they arrive like weather. In the barn, among friends and wanderers, something begins. It moves. It hums. Sometimes it destroys before it creates. Sometimes it leaves no trace but ash. That's my work, born and raise in chaos.

The drawings accompanying my texts are created in charcoal or India ink.

Some of my texts are also accompanied by songs recorded in my barn, with the help of friends and neighbours. Pedro Cão plays bass; he is not only a musician, but also a dear friend and a farmer. Samuel plays the drums; he is a shepherd who makes, in my opinion, the best goat cheese in the world. Young musicians from the local philharmonic sometimes join us, as do friends who happen to visit the house with brass and other instruments. The rest is up to me.

My oil paintings incorporate NFC tags, allowing viewers to scan the works with their mobile devices and enter what I call my “black boxes”.

The paintings can be found here, or at the gallery that represents me.