Every morning, when I turn on my computer his eyes stare back at me. Serene, composed and wise – but also demanding, uncompromising. Blood drips down his back, adding a shine and red to the greens, blues and silvers that sparkle from the multicoloured barbs, weapons that are ripping into his flesh, bit by bit.
He passed away long ago, Joao. Tortured publicly in the infamous Portuguese ring at Campo Pequenho, and then executed in one of its dungeons. A young bull. If you like, Joao is my ‘boss’: I work for him. His tragic photo is the thing that wakes me up every morning – and reminds me what ...
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