On Timing, Dignity and Impossible Moments

Presidente Marcelo Rebelo de Sousa com retrato Gus Romano

In 2025, I painted one of the most ambitious portraits I had ever attempted. A large portrait of the then President of Portugal, Marcelo Rebelo de Sousa.

Like many of my paintings, it was not planned with great strategy or intention. I rarely know what I will paint far in advance. Painting has always depended on what I feel in the moment. I do not sit down and decide rationally that a portrait “makes sense.” Usually, something in me already knows before I can explain it. That was the case with this painting. I painted it because I felt compelled to. No commission, no promise, no expectation. Just instinct.

I called it The Weight of Thought.

After finishing the painting and ordering the frame, I began trying to create the opportunity to show it to the President. I reached out through different channels, and several people close to him kindly said they would try to help make that moment happen. But nothing concrete came. Weeks became months. The painting stayed at my parents’ house for almost a year. Some people might have lost hope. I never did. Deep down, I always felt that at some point the right moment would come. And eventually, thanks to Luís de Andrade Peixoto, that moment finally happened.

Yesterday, I had the opportunity to meet President Marcelo Rebelo de Sousa and personally present him the painting. I cannot deny how nervous I was. This was the first time I would stand face to face with the President of Portugal. More than that, I did not even know if the meeting would be simply to show the painting or to offer it. I had always told his team that I would be happy either way. It is a very large painting, and I understand that not every space can accommodate a piece of that size. Still, uncertainty added to the anxiety. I remember the room vividly. It was a room that commanded enormous respect. Around me were photographs documenting the President’s entire mandate. Official visits, historic moments, meetings with world leaders, presidents, popes. Images carrying the weight of a nation’s recent history. The room had air conditioning. And yet I remember sweating. My throat went dry. I drank two glasses of water while waiting. My biggest fear was not criticism. It was blocking completely. Saying nothing. Becoming too formal. Letting the moment become purely protocol.

Then the President entered the room.

Everything changed immediately. The nervousness disappeared almost at once. It was his energy. His warmth. His joy. He entered with a smile, fully aware that I had been waiting inside. What surprised me most was how human he felt. Not distant. Not ceremonial. Surprisingly close. He greeted me with a strong embrace. The room became lighter. He quickly moved toward the painting, visibly eager to remove the yellow cloth covering it. There was something almost childlike in that curiosity. And I knew that his first reaction would matter deeply to me. Because first reactions are honest. They happen before politeness. Before diplomacy. Before reflection. They are pure instinct. He uncovered the painting and said: “This is something of great dignity.” I do not think I will ever forget those words. All my thoughts disappeared. In that moment I felt relief, happiness and something close to peace. When you paint portraits out of passion, the opinion that matters most is always the person being portrayed, whether that person is the President or anyone else. Of course, people can compliment technique, likeness, brushwork, color. Those things matter. But his words touched something deeper. He did not say it was a beautiful painting. He did not comment on technique. He did not mention resemblance.

He recognized the work as something dignified. Something with weight. Something official. That meant everything. As someone who considers himself a painter, I felt deeply moved that the work was not received merely as a drawing, a gift or a gesture of admiration, but as a work of art with presence and significance. For me, that validated something far beyond technical ability. It validated the painting itself. I was also lucky to share this moment with my father. That made the day even more special. There is something unique about making family proud. Better than external recognition is being able to look at the people who have seen your journey from the beginning and feel their joy. I can still hear my father laughing in the videos. His smile looked like mine.From ear to ear. Even on the drive home, the smiles stayed. We kept laughing as we replayed the moment together. And of course, in true Marcelo fashion, there was time for the inevitable selfie. The President is known for his selfies, and somehow that final moment removed whatever formality still remained. What made it even funnier was that he himself asked for the phone to take the pictures. That small gesture made the whole experience feel even more human. Looking back, this meeting feels almost impossible.

A painting created from pure instinct.

A year of waiting.

And then, suddenly, the right moment.

This experience reminded me of something I am slowly learning. Paintings have their own timing. Some works arrive exactly when they need to. Not when we want them to. This was more than the delivery of a painting. It was a reminder that art can create moments that logic alone could never plan. Moments that once felt impossible. And perhaps that is one of the most beautiful things about painting.

You begin with a blank canvas, guided only by instinct, never fully knowing where it may eventually lead.

Sometimes, if you are patient enough, the painting answers.