The portrait of Ricardo Araújo Pereira & The Price of Perfection
Yesterday I painted a portrait inspired by Ricardo Araújo Pereira. I’ve wanted for a long time to paint someone who truly understands the art of walking on the line — that fragile border between humour and provocation.
I decided to paint him after watching his comments on the recent trial of Joana Marques and the band Anjos. He spoke with the lucidity I’ve always admired: sharp, funny, fearless. I grew up watching Gato Fedorento; perhaps that’s why I felt a strange familiarity while painting him.
I listened to motivational videos about fighting for dreams while I worked, as if I needed that energy to keep going. I painted him in a blue suit, with an orange, yellow, and red tie — realistic colours, but bright enough to carry something of his spirit. Behind him, a light blue background.
The result… it’s fine, but not what I want to be. It’s a painting of a person, not a painting of a soul. I want my portraits to hold something more — a tension, an emotion that makes you stop breathing for a moment. This one didn’t. Maybe it was just a study, an exercise in texture and form.
Still, I like to think that, while he walks the line with words, I walk mine with colour. The humourist and the painter — both risking mistakes to find truth. That’s what I wanted to capture: the gaze of someone who understands laughter as a form of resistance.
But when the paint dried, my mind wasn’t on the canvas anymore. It was somewhere else. Lately I’ve been working almost every weekend, buried in Fashion Weeks, always chasing perfection — at work, in painting, in everything. When I get home, I paint so I don’t feel that the day was lost. And when I paint, I disappear completely. The world shuts off.
I give all my energy to work and art, and what’s left isn’t always enough for the person I love most. Tarla told me one night that she’s only in Portugal because of me. She said it softly, but I felt the weight of it. I didn’t know what to say. Sometimes I answer with silence, sometimes defensiveness. I tell myself I’m doing everything I can — fighting for our future, for a house, for stability — but maybe I’m forgetting what she needs now.
I think about when we were younger, when we went to the cinema without worrying about rent. I miss that simplicity. I would tell her that I am the man I am because of these ten years with her — that every fight, every sleepless night, is still for us.
But love has languages, and lately I’ve been speaking the wrong one. My work is my way of saying “I love you,” but she needs touch, quiet, time. I’m learning, slowly, that love cannot live only on the promise of a future. It needs presence.
This year I learned about Hokusai — how he only understood his wife’s love when she was gone. I don’t want that to be my story. The balance between what pays rent, what feeds the soul, and what holds the heart is the hardest composition I’ve ever tried to paint.
And tonight, I can’t help but wonder:
Perhaps the hardest art of all is learning when to step back from the canvas and look at the person beside you.
Lisboa, Outubro 2025
