António Martins Teixeira
When talking about photography, António Martins Teixeira starts with the simplest principle: “It is the writing of light. If there is no light, there is no photography.” It is an almost elementary definition, but also a way of returning to the essence of a process that, over the past few decades, has become increasingly fast, automatic, and invisible. The work of this photographer from Porto follows precisely the opposite path: a return to the origins, to slowness, and to the physical experience of the image.
Born in Vila Nova de Gaia in 1962, his career has been that of a pioneer. He was part of the first advanced photography program in Portugal, at Cooperativa Árvore (1982–85), at a time when training in the field was a real adventure. To pay for his studies, he immersed himself in the school’s own darkroom, a “total immersion” that defined his relationship with the image: one built on hard work, chemistry, and trial and error. The pace was intense: classes, readings, developing, and experiments took up practically all his time. It was a period of total immersion. “The only thing I did from morning to night was go to the lab, attend classes, and read,” he recalls. Photography then began to take on the contours of a “parallel world,” something that would shape his entire life.
At the same time, he attended the Faculty of Arts at the University of Porto, where he earned a degree in Geography. This academic background would go on to influence the way he views photography: not only as an artistic language, but also as a tool for observing and understanding space. He has utilized both approaches for nearly three decades. Between 1986 and 2014, he taught photography, helping to train several generations of photographers.
Although he works with a variety of techniques and technologies—ranging from analog to digital, and now including mobile phone photography—in recent years António Martins Teixeira has devoted particular attention to one of the most primitive processes in the history of the image: pinhole photography.
The principle behind the pinhole camera is simple and fascinating: instead of a lens, it uses only a small hole—a pinhole—through which light enters. This light projects an inverted image of the outside world inside the camera. The optical principle is elementary: light travels in a straight line. But the aesthetic consequences are unique.
Since very little light enters the camera, the exposures are long; there is no conventional focus, and the image is soft; the depth of field seems infinite, and the images tend to take on a soft, almost dreamlike quality. If the camera has unconventional shapes—cylindrical, spherical, or improvised from everyday objects—unexpected distortions and deformations also appear.
What many would see as a technical limitation becomes, for him, a creative opportunity. “Instead of trying to avoid these distortions, we can embrace them and even intensify them,” he explains.
An essential part of this process is the construction of the cameras themselves. António Martins Teixeira often builds devices specifically for each project: boxes, metal containers, and makeshift structures that are transformed into photographic instruments. The first one may have been a simple tea can, but the principle remains the same: experiment, build, test, and observe the result.
The unpredictability is part of the appeal. Even after decades of practice, the photographer admits that he continues to be surprised by what emerges at the moment of development. “The results from pinhole cameras always have an element of surprise and unpredictability,” he says. One of the experiences that left the deepest impression on him came when he used an anamorphic cylindrical camera to create a series of self-portraits: the resulting images featured unexpected distortions, creating expressive and unconventional portraits.
This interest in the distortions and nuances of the photographic process has become a hallmark of his work. António Martins Teixeira admits that he prefers experimentation to the pursuit of absolute technical perfection. “I respect those who strive for highly refined, sharper, or more accurate results,” he says, “but it is the experimental approaches that interest me most.”
This perspective is also reflected in the way he views the work of other photographers. Since 2015, he has helped organize exhibitions, conferences, and workshops dedicated to pinhole photography at the Mira Forum in Porto, and closely follows the international Mira Pinhole Photography competition. Among the hundreds of images he sees every year, it is above all those that explore the limits of the process that pique his interest the most—those that embrace the aberrations, distortions, and imperfections inherent to this technique.
More than just a style, it’s almost an attitude. For António Martins Teixeira, working with pinhole photography means accepting the passage of time, experimentation, and mistakes as part of the process. That’s also the advice he would give to anyone wanting to get started today. In a world saturated with instant, technically perfect images, pinhole photography can be a way to slow down. “Perhaps to appreciate the passage of time,” he suggests. “To forget the rush and the results. To move forward slowly and savor each achievement.”
This approach may seem anachronistic in an era dominated by digital sensors, algorithms, and artificial intelligence. However, the fundamental principles of photography remain the same: light, film speed, aperture, and shutter speed are the four variables that shape any image and are present in both a pinhole camera and a smartphone. Digital is just another tool—“very analog,” as he likes to say—because it continues to obey the same physical laws that have governed photography from the very beginning. What truly interests him lies elsewhere: in the realm of experience, curiosity, and the question that precedes every attempt. “If I do this, what will happen?” It is in that question—simple, almost childlike—that the essence of his work continues to reside.
