Terra Diatomácea
This photographic book is a deeply personal exploration of life inside Casa Marvão, a house in Lisbon where I lived for four intense months. The images capture more than just a chaotic shared space—they tell the stories of the people who inhabited it, each with their own struggles, quirks, and attempts to find a sense of belonging in this temporary refuge.Every resident in Casa Marvão lived a different reality. Through my lens, I documented these moments of connection and conflict: the Brazilian woman baking magic brownies, the Icelandic tenant leaving traces of himself in unexpected places, and the nameless stranger who would haunt the house with his silence. Each person’s narrative unfolded in the cluttered kitchen, the noisy living room, and the quiet corners where tension simmered. A surreal text, written by one of my flatmates, intertwines with the photos, recounting our communal life as it spiraled into chaos. Bedbugs, growing as a metaphor for the festering conflicts, became symbolic of the house’s unraveling, feeding on our frustration and amplifying the discontent that no one could ignore. Casa Marvão was supposed to be a sanctuary—an affordable place to live when the city’s housing market offered little hope. But what happens when the dream of communal living collides with the realities of human nature? This project is not just about a house; it’s about the people who lived within it, each telling their own story of survival, conflict, and the search for connection.
It's three o'clock in the morning. I have nothing left to cook, I finished the last of the macaroni yesterday. But I sweep the dirt off the floor, put it in a saucepan, and take whatever I can find in the fridge: a slice of watermelon, carrot cake, two slices of pizza. And I bring it all to a boil. I stir with a wooden spoon, turn the heat to maximum and start pouring fried tomato. Fried tomato in gushes. I leave the fire on. I want a volcano like the ones in the school experiments. I want fried tomato and shit all over the walls. / It's three in the morning. I go to the living room and start playing the piano. That precious piano that was once a symbol of community. That beloved piano that once brought a group of strangers together to drink beer and share ears of some particular jazz / Let them come and get me. / It's three in the morning. I'm ready to declare war. / WhatsApp messages through the group. Disqualifications. Insults. "Motherfucker, how do you start playing at three in the morning?", "No brain, this little Spaniard." / Fuck them, I'm not going to take a step back.
Casa Marvão used to be different. People a little bit from everywhere. Portuguese, Germans, French, Spanish, Russians. A refuge in Martim Moniz, provided by the owner Maria, who lived here as a child with her family, for all those who were looking for some kind of community life. For all those who were tired of looking for an apartment in Idealista and finding a room for five hundred euros with no expenses included, nor window. Here you pay less, and it seems that money does not come before anything else. And besides, you have a window. / This was paradise. I can’t even explain how we got where we got to. / In this house things have become difficult. / Who left the dishes in the sink? / Please, guys, could you clean the bathroom if you miss? / It started with things like that. Little things. / But soon it escalated. / Since no one was taking care of anything, people started taking the war into their own hands. / An Icelander who looks like Radiohead’s singer leaves bits of fingernails around the floor and people prick themselves and scream. I can imagine the Icelander laughing at every scream. / A French woman who likes to bake magic brownies walks around the house with a pan of melted butter. It may seem silly but the rest complain: “it’s such a pain to be hungry all the time,” they say. The dirty kitchen and the smell of butter wafting around. We have told her all this, and she has answered: bon appetit. / A guy whose name or origin I don´t know, because I’m scared to ask him, leaves once a month the bathroom full of hair. And now as a form of personal battle he doesn’t clean it. / A Russian-German likes to hide behind doors. He’s already been told that it’s not funny but he seems to lack an air, really. / And so everyone, everyone has their own strategy. / The fridge full of shit. The kitchen counter full of shit. Noise at night. Living room full of shit. Noise in the daytime. Dirt and noise seem to be the most used strategies. / We need some kind of help, it’s getting worse every day. / Please.
