Born in 1976. He lives and works in the city where he was born, Vila do Conde. The darker it is, the colder it is, and his mother’s warm body slowly cooled, leaving rotting flesh. He began his studies in Vila do Conde, followed by Oporto. Dusseldorf. The hand profoundly discovered his voice; a hand guided by thought. To say Pain. To say Memory. To say Death. To say nothing at all, to only show the rottenness that inhabits him, with discipline and rigour; after all: work, following the commandments of his decalogue. He loves what he does because he is himself. He does not refer to art in vain. He glorifies his working days, as well as his rest days. He honours his family and friends. He shall not kill unless there is no other way. Words and actions must be cordial beasts. As for false testimonies, are they so false? He wants nothing with what doesn’t pertain to him. He has nothing except for two dates; the first already recorded, the last on hold, but the soundtrack for his funeral has already been chosen.