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12/14/2005: "The Long Way Home"
I walk down to the central bus-station, rain or shine, on the way I let myself be tempted into ordering a sandwich and a strong portuguese coffee – uma bica – at the busy café, swarming with people on their way to work, while I wait for the bus to take me in the direction they have come from. I purposefully leave the house half an hour earlier to have an excuse for this temptation. The bus takes twenty minutes getting me to the small gathering of rustic houses that makes up the village of Charneca from where it’s another ten-minute walk down to the studio, which, at this time, though not quite so early in the morning, still hasn’t felt the rays of the sun. In the winter months I must look like the Michelin man to those who stop to look at the gardens from the road above, so many are the layers of trousers and jumpers I put on to keep me warm until I’m bold enough to remove them as painting becomes more energetic and makes me forgetful of such things. The walks – the one along the coastline before the bus and the one amidst the hills down to the studio after the bus – are invigorating, and the ride soothes my mind as I let go of the conditioning of everydayness and hand over control to the driver and to mother-earth and her different sense of rhythm. When I get off the bus I’m in a different world, a world I only truly reach when I get there by bus…
I’ve driven myself there on many occasions, but on such days I never feel the same way and I never manage to see to the same depths. I had never really given much thought to this but the act of driving and of giving-in to many of the modern-day commodities and creature comforts I’ve surrendered to keeps me asleep and leads me to a different place than that which matters ultimately. When I get to the studio by car – my car, or any other car [taxi included] – it takes me twice as long to get into the groove and be productive. I allow half the morning to go by before anything of substance comes to mind and another half before anything starts to materialise, it takes me longer to let go of the controls – my mind remains encapsulated within the ‘other’ world with its agenda and worries. There’s so much that passes me by when I insist on holding on to the controls of what I want my modern life to be. I might catch a glimpse of the old lady crossing the street but I’ll miss the bit where she stops by the water tanks to chatter with the village ladies doing their laundry. I remember seeing rabbits darting in front of the car as I drove past but how often did I get to see the fox running after them? The car takes me there too fast and too asleep and if I do see the fox it’s out of sheer luck! 
Charneca is off the main road that takes you from Cascais to the westernmost point of Europe – Cabo da Roca – the bus makes a detour and drops you off at the water tanks before driving back to the main road. It is hard to explain, but when it’s time to get off and start walking down into the valley my mind has already started to perform the leap into my studio so that when I get there and open the door the paintings I had left scattered on the floor or against the wall start talking to me the instant I step in and I am ready and eager to listen to them and nothing else. It takes longer to get there from home but I’m there much faster.
