Martim Morais
- Anna Lilli Garai
- May 27
- 3 min read
Martim Morais works from a place of instinct. His process is fast, expressive, and often physical—built on rhythm, emotion, and a need to stay connected to the present moment. Whether he’s using clay, oil, or pencil, he follows feeling over plan, letting materials speak through texture and gesture. Landscape, memory, and poetry all shape the atmosphere of his work, even if they aren’t directly visible. His works feel focused and full of energy. They carry movement, but also moments of pause. Each piece seems shaped by experience, like a reaction to something real and felt.
Q: You describe painting as a release. What usually builds up before you start?
A: Basically, I can’t go more than a day without creating—otherwise I start to feel completely useless. I need to create to live. Inside of me, there’s a kind of addiction or obsession with the act of doing. But also, because of my personal experiences, I sometimes need to express myself in various ways—one of them being painting.
Q: Some of your gestures feel like they’re on the edge of control. Do you notice when that shifts while working?
A: Yes, I notice. I normally like to paint in a fluid and free way, but still within a certain image I have in mind—even if it's just a blurred image. But I can tell when things start to get too complex or stray too far from the original concept.
Q: You mention landscapes as a kind of refuge. Are there real places you return to in your mind?
A: Maybe unconsciously, yes. It’s not something I notice or think about while painting. But now that I stop to reflect on it—I grew up in a place surrounded by nature, and sometimes when I take the train to go back,
I’m amazed by the landscapes I see through the window. They’re landscapes of great beauty and enchantment, and maybe I do miss those places deeply. So perhaps my unconscious tries to return to those moments and recreate them through painting.
Q: When your marks feel like a scream, do you ever step back or keep pushing?
A: More specifically in drawing—when I draw, I try to do it quickly, expressively, and with extreme gesture. Everything happens in an instant, and then I don’t touch it again. It’s almost like cutting sushi or sashimi—you cut the raw fish and then you serve. It’s a strange example, but you get the idea.
Q: How do painting, ceramics, and poetry feed into each other in your process?
A: I use ceramics within the painting itself—like acrylic, oil paint, or any other material. Sometimes, when the painting feels too flat, it bothers me, and I try to create more and more texture. So using clay becomes perfect. I treat it as just another material and sometimes leave it beneath the paint, almost hidden.
As for the relationship between poetry and painting, there are moments when I like to create something based on a poem or a book. I try to convey, through painting, the essence of that poem and the emotions I felt when reading it—to transform it into a kind of visual poem. I like to think of myself as a mere poet who looks at nature and tries to praise its beauty and charm through painting—writing with paint instead of words.
Q: You paint for yourself, but it still matters how people react. What kind of response sticks with you?
A: When I’m trying to convey a certain message, it’s important for me that the public understands at least a little of that message—a certain story or narrative I’m trying to tell—and that the emotions I felt are also felt by others. But there are moments when I paint just for myself. And there are even other moments when the painting isn’t for me or the public—but for Nature.
