Following the transcript of the Q&A moderated by Nuno Sena at Cinemateca Portuguesa after the retrospective of Gianmarco Donaggio's Portuguese films in collaboration with painter Nelson Ferreira.
Films: The Lisbon Trilogy (2022), Azul no Azul (2022), and Alba Nera (2024).
Nuno:
How do you view the relationship between different forms of art, such as your paintings and Gianmarco’s films, and the ways you two navigated your own realities?
Nelson:
Artists, of course, are all different, and I don’t want to generalize. Some artists choose a structured life, working a nine-to-five job and then unwinding afterward. Others, however, are hypersensitive to reality and create paracosms—parallel worlds that may relate to this one but remain distinct from it.
That said, I believe that anyone with a heart connects with all forms of art. It doesn’t matter whether it’s music, cinema, painting, sculpture, literature or dance—at its core, art is an expression of what it means to be human in a given moment.
When Gianmarco created his films, he crafted his own interpretation of reality. I found it fascinating how his work complemented the static images of painting, which, to me, symbolise eternity. A painting, like an Egyptian pyramid, is fixed, like the unmoving figures of medieval religious art or the eternal God, whose stillness represents the source of all movement. In contrast, cinema captures the flow of time through movement.
Gianmarco:
Nuno, as you can see, you’ve opened up a discussion we’ve been having several times—just like yesterday, when we were talking until 3 a.m. about Duchamp. These conversations can go on for hours. For me, working with painters is quite challenging. Nelson, however, is a unique case. I usually collaborate with dancers, as I mentioned earlier. My experience, theories, and approaches are quiet analytical compared to Nelson’s. I tend to be more theoretical, and this theory is generally influenced by movement and motion.
I see cinema, as Nelson correctly pointed out, as an evolution of a new direction—one that reveals the world through motion rather than static images. This contrast between the static and the dynamic can lead to an endless conversation. As you said, there’s an eternity in painting, which I think should be separated from film. Otherwise, cinema risks becoming a selection of frozen instants instead of a flux of motion. This is a problem with much of today’s commercial cinema—it is static - it adheres strictly to fixed structure, script, and formula, which can sometimes make films feel rigid, as if frozen. Not always, of course, but it happens.
When I came to Lisbon and met Nelson, I had no idea I would ever make these films. I didn’t set out with a fixed plan—like, I’m going to make a blue film, then this and that. Instead, I opened my heart and ears, and I tried to listen with motion.
Nelson was incredible—reliable, which is crucial when working with other artists. Too often people get excited about an idea but then disappear before anything happens. Nelson, on the other hand, was always present—highly skilled and, most importantly, honest. Of course, we had our clashes. But every time, they ended in a kind of dialectical harmony. We’d argue, we’d think things through, and in the end, we’d always find peace.
For me, cinema is, above all, an encounter. It requires deep listening. With Nelson, our collaboration was (to me) about stepping into his world and seeing where it would take us. He wanted to explore painting, while I wanted to explore dance. In the end, we found a middle ground. He never questioned or doubted anything—we simply allowed the work to come together naturally.
However, with Alba Nera it was a little different…
Nuno:
I do have one question regarding the collaboration. Often, these kinds of films fall under the category of commissioned work, where an artist or institution—such as MNAC - National Museum of Contemporary Art, or the Batalha Monastery—might have a say in the final outcome.
I wonder, was there any sort of external guidance or influence in this case? Did an institution or commissioner shape the final work in any way?
Gianmarco:
We’ve been incredibly lucky with them. The truth is, we had a large amount of freedom. For example, we spent an evening filming in the monastery. That level of trust was possible because Nelson had already built a strong relationship with the institution. He had a great connection with the director, and they trusted each other.
For me, it was easy—I was just an invited guest collaborating with Nelson. But ultimately, this was really his work, right? Am I correct?
Nelson:
Portugal is not just beautiful—it’s a place where you can do things that would be strictly forbidden elsewhere in Europe. And I adore that. I think it’s one of Portugal’s most redeeming qualities.
In Portugal, you can still create things that would be impossible elsewhere. Take present-day London, for example—the amount of red tape in there is unbelievable. You have zero access to anything because everything became corporate and driven by money.
Portugal, on the other hand, still grants access to its treasures. And people, once you warm them up and build a relationship, are genuinely kind and open. It might take a while—yes, we’re slow, don’t rush us—but in the end, things do get done.
Nuno:
I wouldn’t say slow, especially considering that we’ve watched three different films made in just the last three years—that’s quite an achievement.
Watching them together, of course, each film is its own distinct piece, with different objectives. But I noticed a common ghostlike quality running through them. Cinema is often expected to be objective or even archival in nature. However, Gianmarco seems more interested in the impersonal politics of cinema. At the same time, when he looks at your paintings, he is also projecting himself into that visual language. So, my question—more for Gianmarco—is this: When you look at these films as a whole, do you see a development in your own approach to cinema?
Gianmarco:
Yes, absolutely. While making these films, I also started AV performing, which completely changed my approach to cinema. Now, I’m creating live film—live cinema with live sound—where everything is constructed on stage. The idea is to push the boundaries of cinema even further. Naturally, this shift influenced the way I approached filmmaking. Nelson, however, always pulled me back toward a more classical approach, so we had this ongoing dichotomy in our collaboration.
To answer your question, when I rewatch these films, Nelson and I both recall certain memories from those times. The first film was so intense—almost violent. It was my experience of coming to Lisbon and being thrown into a new world. I felt an urgent need for porosity—to absorb everything. I was constantly outside, filming, meeting people, living in the city. Many of my friends here, I met during that time.
By the second film, in the second month of my residency, I had slowed down. I was no longer just reacting—I was observing, looking more deeply at the city’s movement and what it could reveal to me. I followed the rhythm of Lisbon, from the way people moved to the peculiar beauty of laundry hanging outside—something that reminded me a bit of Italy.
The third film, however, was more of a coincidence. I don’t know if you remember, but it had this distinct orange tone. That wasn’t something I planned—the film is what it is. I didn’t color it artificially. It was shot during a sandstorm that arrived in March 2022. The images in the film aren’t clouds but microscopic grains of sand that I shot using my unique set of lenses.
The storm merged with the river, and everything turned orange.
At that point, I felt a sense of calm. I had already gone through the intensity of the first film and the deeper reflection of the second. By the third, I could finally let go and embrace the unexpected.
Then came the next film, where the collaboration with Nelson played a larger role. It was more structured around his practice. So yes, there’s definitely a development in my approach. The first film was all about porosity—absorbing everything. The second was about attention—learning to observe more deeply. And by the third, I had gained the ability to listen—to the city, to the process, and ultimately, to invite Nelson’s presence in my work.
The last film, the one we’re here for today at the book launch, was about emergence—this ongoing tension between image and picture, and the question of which holds more power in the end. While it carried elements from the previous films, it also had a guiding thought that was always present in the back of my mind. So yes, without a doubt, there has been a clear evolution in my approach to cinema.
Nelson:
Something that really struck me about seeing the three films together for the first time—since I had only seen them separately before—was their visual richness. You moved through such different phases: from total expressive confusion, which I loved in the first sketches about Lisbon, to something much more lyrical and impressionistic.
What moved me particularly was how this shift in style resonated with the blurriness in my own blue paintings, which were hazy, blurry, and ghostly when I was working in MNAC. In the film, you captured that feeling so well. There are moments where the sculptures seem almost alive. For example, the back of the boy sculpture seems to move, even though it’s made of bronze. It’s as if you managed to breathe life into it.
And then, in Alba Nera, the sharpness in the visuals was striking. It reminded me of Eastern European photography—places like the Czech Republic, Hungary, and Russia, where the black-and-white photography has a certain powerful, pungent aesthetic. I’ve always adored that kind of photography, and in moments of Alba Nera, I felt that same intensity.
Finally, what I really want to emphasise is that Gianmarco is incredibly flexible, which I think is a hallmark of a great artist. From my perspective, you adapt to different languages depending on what’s in front of you. You’re not confined to just one style or method; you react to reality.
This is something I think is often missing in the work of many artists, who tend to fall into repeating the same style over and over. While that can make them recognisable, it can also become a kind of limitation. I admire how quickly you’ve shifted and developed your language in such a short time. It’s inspiring, and I really adore that about your approach.
Public:
This is the first time I’ve seen the films, and what I find interesting about the relationship between still and moving images in your work is how it constantly appears in different forms. In some moments, especially in Alba Nera, you manage to create something that triggers visceral reactions, something almost organic. For example, in Azul no Azul, there’s this moment where you create a sense of movement in stillness—something that feels extreme in the context of cinema. The way you work with the statues and their textures creates a movement that feels almost human, as if the statues are alive, moving like the human body.
There’s something sensual about how these textures are presented, especially when you focus on the hands. It’s not telling a traditional narrative, but rather, it seems to use the power of the image to trigger sensations in the viewer. The atmosphere you create is heavy, yet also beautiful. In Alba Nera, there are so many different effects used. In the first image, for instance, there’s something that resembles video art, and the question is: "Where is it going?" But then, there’s this beautiful scene of the sea. It’s unpredictable, yet everything has a clear purpose, guiding the viewer through the experience.
I think it’s a very unique way of creating images, especially as you explore the tension between movement and stillness. This is something that really stands out for me.
When I think about it, there’s a certain relationship between cinema and still images, between film and painting. Azul no Azul, for example, feels more like a cinematic piece. But even in that, you can see an evolution—how the language has grown and developed over time.
It’s fascinating to see how these elements come together.
Gianmarco:
Yes, I completely agree.
Each film was made in a different context, so I had to approach them differently. For example, Alba Nera was created specifically for a museum setting. That, in a way, imposed its own limitation—not so much in terms of what we could do, but rather where it would be screened.
Azul no Azul was designed as a looping six-minute piece, meant to exist within a museum installation. That’s how you experienced it—within that particular space, where the format of continuous repetition was essential.
On the other hand, Alba Nera was much more cinematic. It followed a more traditional short-film structure—15 minutes, with a flow that builds and resolves. Even though it wasn’t classical in a conventional sense, it still adhered to a recognisable cinematic form. And for the first time ever in my films, it included words—which tied into the book we discussed earlier.
Now, about the images, especially the river scene you mentioned—yes, that was a deliberate choice. The way the video moves creates a kind of reaction in the senses, something strange and unsettling. But this wasn’t about recreating an experience in a literal way—it was about revealing something. Cinema has a unique ability to show aspects of the world that other mediums cannot. That’s what I was exploring with the storm. Instead of simply describing it—saying "this is what happened," or treating it like a diary—I used cinematic tools to communicate the feeling of that moment. And it was truly strange. You were there, right? You remember what it was like. For those few days, we were living inside a red atmosphere. Our bodies, our eyes—everything was tinted by it. Reality itself felt altered. It even made some people dizzy. I had never experienced anything like it before. So for me, the challenge was:
How do I capture that feeling?
The film became a way to fall into that atmosphere, to translate an experience that was impossible to describe with words alone.
Public:
I was wondering if you were aware of the ghost-like quality, especially in the last film, Where you have the old man. It almost looks like two ghosts when he's moving. For me, I got the sense that it felt almost like a dream or a fourth dimension. Were you trying to convey that, or was it just a natural result of your own vision? I’m curious if you were aware of that quality as it came through.
Gianmarco:
It's difficult to answer this question, because it's something I wanted to do, but it’s also something I only fully realised afterward. It's hard to pinpoint, like I mentioned earlier with the book, in that film there’s a demiurge figure—a creator of the world, or the maker of the world. But the maker of this world, the one who makes images and motion pictures appear and disappear, is not explicitly defined in the film.
So, it could be me, or it could be Nelson and his concepts—everything he put in there—it could be the audience, or it could be him. But if it were him, he would be this strong figure that started the blackness, and then the blackness would permeate everywhere. But in this dimension, it’s also like us. It’s like the audience, because with the image, you construct an idea. And with that idea, you start creating your own thoughts, your life, and so on. And the figure also does that—it represents the creator, but is also observed. It’s not just the creator.
I think this ghostly effect, this sense of apparition, came to me afterward—not during the filming. By the way, that encounter was random—he wasn’t an actor at all. It’s a long story, but a fantastic person. I can’t tell the whole story, but it was a beautiful coincidence. So, to finish this thought: it’s always a process. In the end, nothing is random—never. But the process of getting there has to be something I remain open-minded about personally. Otherwise, I wouldn’t make films.I would never work with a script. If I know exactly where I’m going, I’d just read it or write it myself. But if I’m making a film, it’s because I don’t know what’s going to happen. That’s the point of putting all this effort and suffering into it—I want the film to give me something back. So, the process of making it is always a discovery. It’s a flow, a constant back-and-forth. As I go through the process of cinematic practice, I learn what I can do, and I incorporate that into the way I create films. The technique and concept always feed into each other, if that makes sense.
Public:
When you watch the final film, do you see something that you didn’t expect? Like I mentioned earlier, it affects me in a way that’s different from how it might affect others. When I look at it, it feels almost like an out-of-body experience, as if I’m seeing the world as a spirit, rather than through our senses. I was wondering, when you watched the final product, did you intend to create that effect, or was it something that happened naturally?
Gianmarco:
No, it happened naturally, but I definitely got the reaction you described, even though I wasn’t specifically aiming for it, if that makes sense. It’s the luck of this kind of cinema—you try something, see how it works, and then go from there. Since I’m not forcing anything, like I mentioned earlier, I put it on the screen and then observe what comes from it. Nelson has been part of this process, especially with Alba Nera. For the first time, we actually discussed where we were going with it. I think we both agreed that the effect you described was what we aimed for, especially because the first image is very harsh, and then the figure slowly fades away as the film progresses.
Nelson:
We were walking in Seixal, south of Lisbon, and we visited some old Renaissance windmills in ruins—500-year-old buildings that are slowly fading away and unfortunately, will eventually collapse. Then we saw this man inside, an Argentine named Juan Miguel Prats. We immediately felt that he had to be in the film. We can't wait to show the film to him soon, though he’s probably going to hate it. His favorite film is James Bond, so he probably thinks he’s going to look like a Hollywood star.
Public:
First of all, congratulations on this—it’s all been amazingly put together. These last lines of conversation led me to my question. I love understanding what’s happening with collaboration, especially because I’m an artist as well. The conversation about suffering and all that comes from within our soul, which is also connected to “Alma" [Soul]. So, my question is, how do you manage the wills of two artists, and bring them together to create something so wonderful?
Gianmarco:
Now, just reacting directly to your question, maybe I should think a bit more about it, but my gut feeling is that Nelson is a person I’ve met who is at peace. With other people I've collaborated with, they often have a clear expectation of what they want. For example, when I work on music videos, there’s usually a set idea of what we need to do, where we need to go, and so on. There's a lot of pressure and predefined goals.
But with Nelson, it was always different. He was always at peace with the film. He just came to me and said, "I like the Lisbon Trilogy you did. Why don't you work with a painter?" It was a challenge, but not a demand or expectation. The first film, he didn’t even see the footage before we finished shooting. I just made the film and gave it to him, and he was happy with it.
In that sense, I feel I was lucky, because I didn’t have to have an extensive conversation with him or agree on every detail. It was more about him saying, "I’m an artist, I’m a painter, but this is your thing." Then, with Alba Nera, we had a deeper connection, and we knew each other much better. There was a mutual trust. By then, I could reach out to him with uncertainty and ask, "What do you think? What should we do here?" He was always calm and guided me with a clear vision, saying, "Let’s do this."
Nelson:
I believe that when you meet a master— which I believe you are already—you have to give them total freedom. If you start tying them up with constraints, adding knots, ribbons, chains, and weights, you’ll end up with a very distorted work of art. We actually talked about it yesterday. Oscar Wilde said that art is the only true form of rebellion, the only activity where individuality is fully expressed. You shouldn’t constrain a work of art.
I find it fascinating to watch the creative process of another mind. Why should I get in the way of that? It was beautiful. And it always flowed so naturally. The first time I saw Azul no Azul, I immediately knew it was right. I thought, "Perfect." You don’t need to tell people what to do when they know what they are doing.
Public:
So, I believe I might translate this badly, but let me try. As far as I understand, how much did the geography inform the film? You’re in a space—like a monastery—and you’re in a place where you’re blending the organic with the inorganic. You have living elements like dance, movement, etc., and then you have the materials and architecture of the space surrounding you. How much did the space inform the film? Was that the question? Or was the experimentation more like random and limitless, free from any constraints? Or was there always a connection to the geography in some way? What were the limits for experimentation, especially in the Lisbon Trilogy, or in all your films?
Gianmarco:
Ah, there were almost no limitations, as I mentioned earlier. When I arrived in Lisbon, it was my first time there. For the first film, I worked within one or two weeks. I had just arrived, and I saw the streets, and I loved the walls. Maybe it was because of the residencies in Graça; there was so much happening there, and I just wanted to investigate that.
But I was coming out of a period where I had been working on a series of films that were all very microscopic. As you can see, the films are gradually evolving away from that approach. But in the beginning, it was like this—because I had all these lenses that I had constructed, I was very much into materiality. You've mentioned it many times, and new materialism is something that really interests me—how culture can be influenced by nature, and all of that. The materialism, or realism, let’s call it, the immanence, is very important for me.
But slowly, you start to set your own boundaries. You begin to define your limitations, and you start to understand yourself and how you react to the world. I think growing as an artist involves that, too—eventually, you understand when your work is finished and when it’s not. A lot more was done in those weeks, but only one piece became the final work because I needed to feel something. I needed a response from the material, the city, but also from myself. If I’m not responding, then it’s just something that looks beautiful, but if it’s just beautiful, then it’s not quite what I’m searching for.
So it’s always this kind of interaction, right? Between the world and myself, and with others—in the case of Nelson, but also with the people around you. Because when you're in a residency, you have conversations, of course. At the time, I was also writing my thesis, so my head was everywhere. All of these things influenced the process.
Public:
It sounds like for you, the process is very fluid and not always easy, right? Because the performance began as something else and then evolved into a performance, and it’s now related to the self, but has transformed again. When you're thinking about or preparing a project, does it sometimes feel like you don’t have a specific form in mind?
I think that’s amazing. As an artist, everyone works differently, and I find that concept both exciting and a bit scary because of how unpredictable it can be. How do you deal with this? Is it always like this for you?
Gianmarco:
For this series of films, partly… but for the one you mentioned, hmm.. which I’m briefly introducing now, I’m touring with an audiovisual performance about electricity. It’s a live performance where electricity generates and adds sound and images. For that specific work, I’ve been through so much. Yes, it started as a film. It was a documentary, and slowly, I hated it. I destroyed it, and I was never happy because I chose a difficult subject—electricity.
So in that case, the material itself, as you mentioned, was telling me, "You can’t do this. You’ve failed." I was looking at the phenomena, thinking, "This is not electricity. This is not the flow of current. What am I doing?" It was a moment where I realised I had to break it. Once it became performative, and I could use electromagnetic equipment to capture images and sound, then I understood. I had to break it to get to the point where it worked. Sometimes it’s terrible, sometimes it gets stuck, and in the film industry, I even sent it to some festivals. But I had to take it out because I wasn’t happy with it—it was chaos. It was a nightmare, honestly. But then there was this moment when I thought, "Oh, finally, I got it.” So it’s always a bit of a fight. And I must say, it’s difficult to go back to cinema once you experience the freedom of things generating in front of you. But at the moment, I think they are two very different things.
Public:
I'd like to ask you, because you mentioned before that she (Lisbon?) is both, and I would like to ask about the relationship with the series. How did it change after the move? What were the lines before and after the move?
Gianmarco:
Interesting question. Yes, it changed, obviously, like every work does. When you look back, it changes again. Every time, especially because this work wasn’t really meant for this screening at first. It wasn’t initially intended to be here, but then we decided to show it before, which turned out to be a great idea. I’m so glad we did. But yes, it always evolves. I think the past is always present in some way—it keeps coming back. But sometimes, I guess people do, but I also tend to shut it out. It's like, that was done. But today, I felt the old wave. It was very emotional, personally—it felt like the past was coming back today. My relationship with Lisbon today is still the same as it was in the beginning. That hasn’t changed.
It’s kind of strange. Maybe I believe I know things, but the city doesn’t stop surprising me. It’s a city that gives me strange, beautiful coincidences and vibes—it’s almost like a frequency. It’s not the same. For instance, I was in Porto with Nelson because he teaches at the National Museum Soares dos Reis, and I love Porto, but I don’t have the same connection to it that I have with Lisbon. I immediately told Nelson, "I love Porto, but Lisbon is different." It’s not as beautiful, maybe, for some people, but for me, it has this certain something. You know what I mean? Some places are like magnets in some ways, right?
Public:
So, I'm not an artist, as you know. And I was kind of mesmerised by the films. They are beautiful, congratulations. And at this moment, right in the first clip, I started feeling a bit of anxiety, honestly. Because I was seeing something that, in real life, is just an ordinary stone—something we see thousands of times and don't care about. Yet, you managed to create pure beauty from something that is either ugly or, at the very least, irrelevant.
And I started thinking... I'm sure what happened to Nelson is the same. I'm sure you guys see much more in everyday things than normal people like me do. My question is actually: Is the world freer or much richer than I think it is?
Gianmarco:
It's a difficult question to answer, as there are so many layers to it. I need to pause for a moment and think, because through art, you actually have the chance to return to the freedom you had as a child, you know? When the world was just a plane of possibilities, and you touched things without knowing what would happen. Everything was surprising.
As for the "ugly" side of art—like I mentioned earlier—if I really knew exactly what I was doing, like if someone asked me to make a film about waltzing, that would be the ugly side of it. And this is what happens, for example, in documentaries. When you do research for a project, you start to lose faith in the world. I've worked as a cinematographer on various projects, including documentaries and other types of work. As part of that, I’ve had to do research, and I’ve found the ugly side of things—not just the process itself, but also the information. That’s the scary part for me.
In that kind of free-minded, child-like state that art often brings, you tend to focus on beautiful things. I can quote David Lynch here—he might say that you can’t suffer as an artist while you’re practicing, because it wouldn't work; you wouldn't be productive. So, when you're creative, even though life might be full of suffering, during that creative moment, everything feels beautiful.
Nelson:
When you're open to the world around you, when you're not dormant—when you're truly engaging with your surroundings—you feel things much more intensely. I actually get physically sick when I'm surrounded by ugliness, even for short periods of time. I get headaches, and this happens often while looking at contemporary art. I can go to a so-called “world-class” museum, and although everyone says it’s amazing, after five or ten minutes, I start to experience strong migraines.
So, I don’t respond quickly only to ugliness, but I do experience ecstatic moments of pure sublimity when beauty unfolds in front of me. You don’t have to be an artist to feel that. In fact, I’ve met people who are much more sensitive to beauty than many artists, who sometimes become desensitised from repeatedly working with images.
So, yes, I think you're seeing the world just fine. I always create better when I’m happy–although Van Gogh might disagree. During the preparation for creation, there’s a moment when you feel that the pain of not creating becomes harder to bear than the pain of creation itself. A professor of mine once told me that we only create when the pain of not doing so outweighs the pain of doing it. I’ve repeatedly found that to be true.
I went several years without painting after I finished my degree in Fine Arts. During that time, I completely lost my creative drive. It was like I was burning inside—it was painful not to be creating art. I was physically intoxicated by it, as if something was poisoning my blood.
Artists are like yeast. If yeast doesn’t find flour to ferment, it burns itself. That’s exactly how I felt when I wasn’t creating. You can suffer immensely by not creating art. Creation is often a form of salvation.
(23/01/2025 - Gianmarco Donaggio and Nelson Ferreira Q&A at the Cinemateca Portuguesa)