In September 2015 I went to Porto, Portugal for a one month artist residency. For a long time I had fantasies of taking an artist residency and had applied for a handful but did not get accepted. The Porto residency seemed a little bit more casual; not a rigid application process (but I did have to show work and do an interview before I was excepted.)
I knew little about Porto when I took this trip. I also was coming off of a major abdominal surgery which had complications resulting in a fairly serious life-threatening situation for me. It was after this health challenge that I realized (and I know this is a cliché) that life is short and you shouldn’t put off things you wanna do; things you want to pursue. You really don’t know how long you’re going to be on this earth. So it was in this mindset that I decided to travel to Portugal. I boarded a plane for Portugal at the end of August (the day after my birthday) not knowing where I was going or who I was going to be living with. Everything was literally an unknown to me.
I arrived in the city of Porto, not knowing what I was going to do or if I was going to do anything at all. I brought plenty of camera equipment, of course. I did plenty of research for resources in Portugal. I even connected with a friend who lives in Lisbon ,who I was planning on seeing while I was there. Other than that, I also carried a copy of Moby Dick with me, in case I was not feeling creative at all, at least I could tackle a good book in the time that I had off.
I shared an apartment building with a group of other artists from all over the world. There was Patrick, an illustrator from Great Britain. There was Juliet who was an illustrator from Canada. There was Rann, who is a musician, there was Ivan, an artist from Mexico City and myself. The house was tended to by two Norwegian artists, and two interns from the Czech Republic (who were both named Lenka.) There was also a house cat named Latto. The house was near the old part of Porto, at the border where the city turns modern and contemporary. The building itself was at least 100 years old, and had large wooden windows opened up to the street…which allowed plenty of flies to come into the house. One of the first things I did when arriving in Porto was go to a hardware store and try to explain that I need it fly strips… not speaking a word of Portuguese, of course. I mimed it and they understood what I needed. The windows of the kitchen of the apartment looked out across the street to a brothel. All day and all night there were older women on the sidewalks escorting blue-collar man into the brothel. I would often sit at the window smoking cigarettes, just watching the endless parade of johns.
There are other things that I remember about Porto. There were definitely smells. The apartment was on an alley, upstairs from a small café where every morning the smell of a garlic infused caldo would waft up into my bedroom. There is also the smell of bacalao, dried cod which is popular everywhere in Portugal and the distinct salty, fishy smell was everywhere. There was exhaust fumes from buses and cars. There was the smell of cigarettes of course. And oil paints and inks, and a dirty bathroom, and the incense that I would burn to keep the mosquitoes away, and the smell of an occasional rain on the cobblestone sidewalks and streets of Porto.
There were taste as well. I would often eat a small pork sandwich called a bifana. There were the Portuguese tarts with coffee in the morning. The taste of cheap, local white wine from the nearby Douro Valley bought at the local grocery for two euros a bottle.
And of course, there were sounds always sounds in the city. The apartment was a few blocks away from a church that would ring it ancient bells regularly, especially early in the morning; it was a beautiful sound. My fellow artist across the hall was is doing a series of artwork with an old typewriter. He stayed in his room with the door closed almost all the time. But I would hear the incessant clacking of the typewriter. At the end of the month when we all shared our work that we created, I remember he filled his room with sheets of paper with oddly designed geometric shapes that he typed out on the typewriter, hanging on string from wall to wall.
I could go into the artwork that I created while I was in Portugal. I feel like the less I say about it the better though, because the artwork that I created was the result of everything that I allowed myself to experience. And it was these experiences that were far more important to me. I did eventually create a book and an exhibit of the photographs from Portugal. This was a huge step forward in my belief in myself as a photographer and artist. It also began a self publishing journey which I continue to this day, almost obsessively.
So this rambling entry is really just to document my feelings about time. Not only the time that I spent in Portugal, but also the value of giving myself that gift of time to pursue something deeply important in my heart. My hope is that reading these words encourages you to consider giving yourself the gift of time to pursue whatever it is you are interested in. It doesn’t have to be a month overseas. It could just be an afternoon by yourself. It might lead to something amazing, or it might just be a much needed break from your routine.
