coming

terms

to

The project "Coming to Terms" is an ever-growing body of work that derives from almost a decade of experience as an immigrant in Australia, touching on the concepts of home, community, displacement and belonging, migration, and its unavoidable psychological eﬀects.

Built upon three continuous years of documentary and self-portrait photography alongside stream-of-consciousness writing, the project distils these raw archives into a long-form physical body of work.

this physical object ̶ experimental in nature - combines imagery, text, and lived experience through innovative material combinations, GRAPHIC CONCEPTS, and printing techniques. In doing so, I want to disrupt the conformity of the reaDER, familiar structures, and invite new, experimental processes - from unfinished print methods to glass transparencies.

the unflinching mechanical precision of these recordings is made human, shaped, damaged and made as fragile as the situation it portrays.

“home as ghost is an exploration of self and belonging in the context of migration, the search for community, inclusion, and the eﬀects that come from it. through the use of self-portraiture and surrealist documentation of my surroundings in found scenes, i share with you the process of 3 years of continuous shooting, without any edits or review process, on long strolls, mostly at night, when home is most needed.

repetition, repetition, repetition, manic episodes.

the idea that migration is a process of slow build through socialisation is a detached and incorrect one. the life of a migrant is measured in leaps and bounds, aﬀected mostly by their surroundings, bearing little control over the context they’re in - they’re merely a passerby, not yet a contributor. so the best you can do is change the context you’re in, shed skin after skin, until one suits or the inevitable comes ̶ not al places are habitable.

home isn’t built, just; home is found.”

coming

to terms ii

transparency print on salvaged x-ray lightbox, 2024

it’s about displacement, you see? not the weight of distance. moving to australia was simple. the compromises of staying are another matter. everyday there’s a balance, how much i’m missing there, how much i’m achieving here; my first life continues back home, the second is here with me. i go from moment to moment juggling the two. i suck at juggling. the never ending dichotomy has taken its toll, a foggy tint of mental health colours the days. i never had trouble sleeping, now it’s an elusive thing. this night wasn’t that different. i found myself displaced, in a hotel that would fit neatly in a true crime podcast. it’s late. i’ve gone for a drive.

i’ve followed group chats in which i’ve made myself absent, hermit-like - you see, night here is their morning; even the clock is in on this. i’ve walked, always with my headphones on - you see, they are the key to balance it all. it’s past 3h and i’m finally getting ready for bed. brush teeth. charge gear. alarm set. one final thing, open the curtains. i’ve always enjoyed sleeping with the curtains wide open, as if to not lose track of what is happening, always tethered. that’s when i see it. the diffuse glass catches the light of advertising signs, traffic lights, car headlights and random passersby,

and turns it into a dynamic colourful sight, a surreal landscape trying to mimic an altered state, a world outside mirroring the world within; an auroral cerebralis. for what seems like hours, i sit in silence, on the floor, watching the patterns shift in a quick succession of sun rises/sets. my phone flashes from time to time, that’s the life that continues beyond me. in another timezone. this one, this colourful landscape splayed in front of me, exists in my head. i photograph it, placing myself in it, having found reciprocity in a displaced plane.

because i’ve been asked a few times; the lights were real and there is no image manipulation besides basic exposure, contrast, white balance edits.

Can you imagine the violence of the information he was holding?

The responsibility and weight that comes with it?

The concrete notion that his words, his exact words, his tone, his sentiment, his pauses, here clearing of his throat, the hesitation, will leave and indelible and permanent mark?

I’m forever grateful for how gentle he was.

on bluets, 2026

every since i can remember I’ve mourned my father’s death

There’s an inter-connective tissue that binds this work; it derives from my own tissue, it merges Portugal, Australia, and myself as the anchor. The seascape of my family, the nature of Australia, and myself as the binding agent.

It was the last time we had traveled to the island together. The weight of that meaning made me want to photograph the last moment of light of that day. I pointed my camera at the ocean, it could’ve been anywhere but I aimed it at the reason for my distance, my life in Australia. It was there that the willow tree that textures my face and hidden torso lived. It still does, I think and hope. It was there my portrait was taken as well. Meant to be a photo in jest, it became a signifier of that period, as with anything since, it was hard for anything to be anything else, as for the moment you dig in, it lies breaths away from the surface. I’m not sure I’ve ever cried so much. Salty and trickling, eyes misted.

on tungsten, 2026

the ordinary is ordinary because it ordinarily repeats

Some moments of my life are blurry, not because of any memory loss but that's how they came to me. Through a phone, software, a video call, poor signal, broken connections; can you please repeat? I lost you there.

Births,

deaths,

engagements.

Almost as a reminder that what we were doing was never meant to be the way we communicate, we relate, we show our love; I said I missed you too.

Some moments of my life are blurry, mostly because they now come between tears.

Deep breath,

chat,

Seclusion.

corner of Eva and Leeds after 2am, 2025

The distance has a different weight now. A different kind of pressure, like the tight squeeze you endure before the release, like a tight band being taken off, or a new pair of dress shoes ready to be broken in. It’s the straightening of the canal before it meets the sea. I used to live by the river in Lisbon, I could see it meet the ocean from my window. I’m so glad this liminal space where we act in a drone fashion and endure whatever the journey asks so we can get to the other side is about to end. I’ve become slightly disenchanted with planes and airports, they feel like a bureaucratic procedure, but the outcome, the automatic doors that open onto the crowd of onlookers, peering, eagerly, almost religiously, waiting for the ones their loved ones, that still brings me to tears. every time. I guess that’s my moment, one last tightening before the release, salty sparkly drops, announcing I’m home, which means, family is just within reach, I made it to the ocean.

ease of erasure, 2025

;

heat map, 2025

a portrait of my father after he passed, before he passed. an announced exit that led me to document the small moments that make day-to-day a recognisable tender entity.

— every since i can remember, i’ve mourned my father’s death —

this solemn quiet image is transformed into a heat map, a metaphor for the crystallisation of memories, the task of remembering someone and how fragile this act can be.

every visit erodes the structure of the memories, its small details lost to time; tipping sides; and singularity. the many become few and protecting its diversity becomes a higher need.