Nuno Firmino
Grandpa collected watches. “He likes tiny things. He has the tools and everything…” He’d open up the mechanism and, “with his usual calm”—since haste is the enemy of precision—he knew the function of every single part in the intricate gearwork. “If you open it up, you’ll never put it back together again!” warns Nuno Firmino, grandson of Fernando Augusto Firmino, a camera maker who liked to build one for himself every year. “His camera was the best,” he exclaims, pointing to the wall where his grandfather used to spread out the parts and entertain himself on the steps of the Basilica of Santa Luzia, with a privileged view of Viana do Castelo and the coastline stretching out beyond. “It was his workshop. He made the cameras for himself and for others…”
Every thread of the history of photography in Santa Luzia invariably leads back to Manuel Gonçalves, who spent more than 80 years at his post, and to Póvoa de Varzim, the hometown of both him and other photographers. Nuno, 39, is part of the latest generation. “Mr. Manuel is my father’s uncle, and he still takes turns with me. One day he’s here, the next I am…,” explains the photographer, who spent nearly ten years photographing the Sanctuary of São Bento da Porta Aberta, in the parish of Rio Caldo, Terras de Bouro, and who is now in Viana waiting for customers—tourists, emigrants, tour groups of people who want to climb the dome and imagine they’re in the clouds, or simply those feeling nostalgic, those who already have an old photograph at home and want to renew that time capsule. “It’s like the ice cream man: people see that it turned out nice and they want one too. It happens a lot with the older folks in the villages, who first say they don’t want a black-and-white photograph… And as my grandfather used to say: ‘Color photos are ruining the profession…’”, Nuno points out, with a “Plan B” in the trunk of his car (a “modern camera” with a Bluetooth printer), “just so I don’t lose the customer.”
The parts of the camera that Nuno is familiar with are in plain sight. The “body” is a Voigtländer, the “shutter” is a Compur, and the lens is a Carl Zeiss. The rest is “a box,” to simulate a studio and to speed up the whole process: a thick cloth with two alpaca-style sleeves and a little bird next to Skye, a character from the Pata Patrol who serves as a distraction for the youngest and most restless subjects. “Winter is over, and this box already needs to be replaced and restored: the wood is swelling and losing its color. I already have another one ready, all neat and tidy, all painted up, all pretty, to bring over here.”
The two sides of the box are like two shop windows, a procession of visitors and poses that are more or less staged, a dance with time, and many memories of the process that repeats itself over and over again and of the magic that unfolds before our eyes: adjusting the bellows, the “more to the right,” the shots, the negative and the positive, the dip in the bucket of water, and the friendliness of the person operating the camera. The personalities and the others are there. Nuno and his sister are there, sitting on the little horse, which rarely sees the light of day anymore. “It’s at home. People don’t respect it like they used to. They ruin my little horse. I only bring it out to air it out and get rid of the mold…”
At times, it seems that Nuno still feels the weight of wood and tradition whenever he sets up his contraption, every time he sees a curious onlooker walking toward the box resting on the tripod, and as he performs the chemical ritual and watches the latent image take shape—as if, each time, he were repeating a centuries-old gesture.
“I can already ‘see’ the sun’s intensity on the back of my neck,” he smiles. “I already have a pretty good idea of the light I need to provide. Those who don’t understand just see a normal sun. For us, mind you, it’s the sun.” Spring is just around the corner, and the back of his neck has already taken on some color. The camera is almost always pointed at the basilica’s main façade. It’s a mild, sunny day. “People don’t know this, but the best days are the gray ones. Or autumn days, when the wind whips up a whirlwind of leaves from those linden trees… the leaves and the umbrella look spectacular… But people are afraid. Sometimes people wait for the ideal moment, but… perfect things… Not even God was perfect…”
Year after year, Santa Luzia preserves some of its classic traditions: Manel and Maria, made from intertwined woolen threads; the man who opens the trunk of his car to sell casadinhos and other pilgrimage sweets; the ride up in the elevator (inaugurated in June 1923); the walk down the staircase; the votive offerings; and the devotion. And the souvenir, just like the original. Two photos, ten euros—two identical ones or one standard and one embedded in a heart that says “Viana,” “a montage that was once a novelty and is now a tradition,” explains Nuno Firmino, who, upon request, also deconstructs other famous frames—such as the one with the television displaying “Rádio Televisão Portuguesa”—and uses the guillotine to give the photo’s edges a serrated effect. “Back in the day, that’s all there was…”
