Being Brazilian in Portugal has never been neutral. In the beginning, it was often an exercise in resistance. There was a time when I lived in two worlds. One with a ring on his finger. Another without. And it’s amazing how a small metal circle changes the way they look at you. With a ring, I was “the married Brazilian”. Without a ring, after the divorce, there were direct, blunt, embarrassing questions. I’ve heard — bluntly — insinuations and comments based on that old and lazy stereotype: that “Brazilian women steal Portuguese women’s husbands”.
It’s not theory. It’s lived. It’s skin. It’s silence swallowed dry.
Being Brazilian in Portugal did require facing prejudice. Looks. Subtexts. Questions that are not asked. For a long time, I learned to take up less space, to speak more quietly, to soften my manner, to avoid necklines, prints — and this also entered into my work, in the way I tried to adapt my photography to a market that preferred everything very clean, very organized, very contained. A Pinterest aesthetic of life. Beautiful. But often far from real life.
I am not. I always photographed with too many people inside. With history. With touch. With silence. With emotion. Being resistant in the midst of immigration and the challenges of running a business in the market often seemed desperate.
I spent years trying to fit. But it’s not possible for those who have Rio de Janeiro shaped in the cells of their soul.
And then, something started to change. Brazilian immigration around the world helped. It seems that even we, Brazilians living abroad, are working together: taking our language to the world.
In the last six months, I have never received so many quote requests. Never have so many messages from families wanting me to tell their stories. And there’s a question on my questionnaire that continues to surprise me: “Why do you want me to photograph your story?” Increasingly, the answer comes like this:
“Because you’re Brazilian and I like the way you see emotions.” This was not born with me. I know. This is harvest.
It is the result of decades of artists who have paved the way. Clarice Lispector taught me that what is not said is also narrative. Jorge Amado taught me that body and desire are also literature. García Márquez and Isabel Allende taught me that emotion and reality don’t need to apologize. Caetano, Gil, Tom Jobim, Marisa Monte taught me that sophistication doesn’t have to be cold. And Brazilian television — with all its contradictions — taught half the world to feel together on the couch.
I’m made of these references. My photography is a consequence of this. It’s aesthetics, yes. But it is above all sensorial. It’s about bonding. About people. About what’s left when the pose is over.
For a long time, this was seen as “too much”. Too emotional. Too narrative. Too Latin.
Today, interestingly, we are “in fashion”.
After more than ten years in Portugal, prejudice has not disappeared — it would be naive to say that. But there is a real turning point: what was previously read as excess is now beginning to be understood as language. What previously needed to be justified is now sought.
Perhaps this is the best moment: the moment when we are not only desired, but finally a little more understood — even if there are many stereotypes to break.
And yes, I want to enjoy that. But I also want to say, out loud, to other Brazilians: be who you are. Don’t lower your accent. Don’t over-clean the emotion. Don’t apologize for the intensity. This “sauce” that they tried to make us hide is, after all, exactly what brought us here.
And, for the first time in a long time, I no longer feel like I need to speak more quietly — neither photographing less emotionally, nor chasing less aesthetic perfection, but more connection, as it always has been.
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