Lisbon is a special place. I felt I’d stepped into a story by Cervantes where everybody was a passionate character, their story part of the evolving theatre of Life. I once again found myself in deep philosophical discussions with relative strangers – the last time that happened was with a Romanian communist in an Italian restaurant on Lygon Street, Melbourne. Not that it was so long ago but a rare experience nonetheless, a story for another time. It’s special, and not just because one of my oldest and dearest friends now calls it home, but because it still appears so unmarked by the decrepit hand of Western propaganda. I felt a magical innocence, or perhaps it was maturity. Sure, it has its label stores and technological paraphernalia, it would be naive not to, but it seemed (from my very brief visit) that the country still had an evolving and legitimate identity.
I hope my photos do the small part of the country and people I saw justice.