The Sea Wolf , Portrait of My Father
A portrait of my father a sea wolf The Dreamer of the Tides. Oil Portrait Painting Tó Romano
I wish I could be writing filled with enthusiasm, but the truth is that I am tired. It’s a strange kind of tiredness — not the one that comes from lack of sleep, but from carrying too much meaning. I’m standing before my biggest artistic opportunity so far, something that could change my path, something I have created and fought for. Still, instead of feeling only excitement, I find myself longing for something ordinary — an evening without weight, sitting beside Tarla, watching a movie, pretending that time is ours again. Every time I rest, I feel guilt creeping in, reminding me that this is the moment I should be working, painting, preparing. But I keep telling myself that it’s not just about painting every day — it’s about trying, experimenting, failing, and learning.
It has been a difficult year for all of us — for my parents, for my brother, for Tarla. We lost our grandmother, my parents lost their old dog, and health has been fragile around us. My brother bought a house, uncertain of what the future holds. I see each of them searching for something solid to hold onto. I try to be that solidity, the one who smiles, who stays positive, who says nothing of his own worries. I tell myself that if I remain strong, maybe they will believe that everything will be fine. But there are moments when that silence becomes heavy. Especially when I look at my father.
He’s the one who pushes me more than he knows. His criticism has been the most honest school I ever had. He never tells me that something is perfect — only what is missing. This summer, he took a selfie after a day at the beach. Salt still in his hair, the sun still on his skin. And for the first time, he said quietly, “If you ever paint me, use this photo.” It was a simple image, not the portrait of a man posing, but of a man thinking.
I started painting it a few weeks later. The canvas is 60 by 40 centimeters — not large, but enough to carry weight. His face carries cool tones: light greens and blues mixed with warm shades of skin. Around him, the sky and his clothes blend in different blues, and to give contrast I added touches of pastel pink. The painting took me two days. The first day I focused on the portrait, the second on perfecting the clothes and the sky. His expression gave me trouble — it’s an expression built from wrinkles that aren’t always there, only visible when he worries. To make them permanent was a decision. I wanted to immortalize not the man people see every day, but the one who exists in quiet moments of thought — older, wiser, and still fighting.
I painted while listening to Fado — the new album of Carminho, and some songs by Sara Correia. At one point I laughed and told Tarla, “I think I’m getting old, I’m starting to appreciate Fado.” But the music fit. It carried the melancholy of the Portuguese soul — the same mixture of pride and saudade that I see in him. Fado has that strange power of being both grief and gratitude, and that’s what I was painting.
My father was one of the first surfers in Portugal, a man who always spoke of the sea with quiet admiration. He doesn’t talk about it often, but the beach is his safe zone — his place to walk, to think, to breathe. We call him lobo do mar — sea wolf. He’s someone who belongs to the tides, someone who understands patience and nature. Blue has always been his colour — the sky of this country, the ocean, the calm between storms.
When I finished, I felt calm, almost empty. I called him through video, knowing the connection would fail, but I wanted him to see it first. He was alone, walking by the sea, the wind loud around him. For a moment he said nothing. Then he smiled softly and said that I had captured his tiredness, his wrinkles, his beard, his eyes. He said he loved it. And that was enough.
He’s never one to stand behind me while I paint. When he does, he looks for five seconds and leaves without a word. Maybe that’s our way of speaking — silence, followed by a simple sentence that means more than anything else could. This time, hearing that I made him proud was all I needed.
My studio is small, half painting space, half office. Wires on the floor, papers, pens, a desk that I have to clear every time I want to start again. It’s not the ideal place to create, and the mess in front of me often becomes the mess inside me. But when I painted this portrait, the noise disappeared. Everything felt quiet.
This painting is part of The Wonders — a collection about dreamers. And my father is the ultimate dreamer. He once dreamed of a Portugal covered in flowers, of harmony between people and nature. Even now, when he feels lost, that dream still breathes inside him. I painted him not as a model, but as the man who has lived, who worries, who still believes.
Maybe that’s what I want this painting to say, more than I can express myself:
“Dad, you inspire me. I’m proud of you. Thank you. I love you.”
