All language subtitles for BBC.Paula.Rego.Secrets.and.Stories.720p.HDTV.x264.AAC.MVGroup.org

This programme contains
some strong language

and some scenes which some viewers
may find upsetting

When I'm doing a picture
and I've got the story...

and I don't know where to put it -

like, you know, the background,
the setting for it -

I go back to a place
I knew as a child

and I remember the room.

I draw in the furniture
and the room

and then put the story in there.

CLASSICAL MUSIC PLAYS

A Paula Rego painting goes to places
of psychic and emotional experience

that had really been off limits.

The permission she gave
to enter these areas,

it was a flinging open
of the barricades.

It's terribly important
to have what I call a story

and the transformations
that it goes through are colossal.

You take the most enormous risks.

Paula's produced a body of work
over 50 years

which stands right up with the best
things that people have done.

She'll have a huge, lasting legacy.

I think that if you do pictures,

they are about what's inside you
as much as what's outside you,

but that you've got secrets
and stories

that you want to put out there
in the pictures.

My mother has always been
a bit of a mystery to me,

not only as an artist,
but also as a mum.

Secretive and guarded.

Then, unexpectedly,
after her 80th birthday,

she started telling me stories
I'd never heard before

so I asked her if she'd make a film
about her experiences,

the struggles that turned her into
one of our most important artists,

and to my surprise, she agreed.

She was a good painter.

She was an amazing painter,
that she could do anything.

I've got some pictures...

The room upstairs with ten legs

and peculiar tops and things

and she drew that in a flash,
right away.

Even without looking too closely
at it, she'd do it quickly.

I mean, sometimes I used to go
behind her with an easel

when I was very little
and do a picture,

but that was to be near her.

She didn't encourage me
to paint, particularly.

She used to be knitting all the time
for the soldiers

and when they had a sale, she used
to ask me to decorate the walls.

It was a long time ago
and I was very little,

but here she is, still at it, huh?

Good girl.

Naughty girl sometimes.

Why? Well, she was...
My mother was quite harsh.

You weren't close, were you?

No. No?

Not at all. No.

You were always fighting?
Yes, quite a lot.

She told me off and stuff.

Did she?

She didn't tell me anything.

Nothing, you know, like having
babies and all that sort of thing.

Never, never.

When I had my first period,

she just said,
"Now, you must be careful.

"You mustn't let
any man come near you",

and I was very surprised,

but I didn't pay any attention
to it, of course.

I didn't know what she meant.

My mother is really a casualty
of the society she lived in.

That society was a deadly
killer society for women

and I despised it for that.

You see, they encourage women
to do nothing,

and the less they did,

the more they
were admired for it.

That is women of a certain class -

the poor women had to do
bloody everything.

Well, Portugal was a
fascist country, actually,

and it was...

There was no freedom of speech.

There was censorship all over the
place, you couldn't speak your mind,

so it was
an immensely repressive society.

It didn't show

because people went about
behaving themselves.

There were rebellions
at times,

but most of them were put down,
ruthlessly.

So, on the whole, on the surface,
everything ran.

People talked about football a lot

and behaved themselves.

When they had lunch together,

when my father and my grandfather,
or whatever it is,

went out to lunch in the cafe,

there would probably be a whorehouse
next door or something.

They'd have lunch
and then they'd go and fuck.

It was part of the life in Portugal.

It was...normal.

In fact, it was a good thing
for your health.

My sister and I found
many of these childhood pictures

rolled up in the basement
of our grandmother's house.

Mum told us that although she
started drawing when she was four,

it wasn't until her father
began reading to her

that she became obsessed
with painting the stories.

He would scare her with this book
of Dante's Inferno...

..but also introduced her
to the operas of Verdi

and Walt Disney movies.

Even as a little girl,
Mum discovered that she could escape

her repressive
middle-class upbringing

by painting whatever she liked,

acting out her fantasies and fears
in her pictures.

My dad was a complete liberal.

He hated the politics
that they had there.

In fact, he came away to England
and left me

to be looked after
by my grandparents

and came back
when I was two-and-a-half,

so I didn't know them.

I didn't know my mother or my father
until they came back.

But he also had a tough life
in his own way.

Yes. He suffered from
depression quite a lot.

Yes, he did.

You see, he's got a crown of thorns.

Poor man, he had a bad time.

Didn't speak. He would come along,
sit down to dinner,

have dinner without saying a word

and getting up and
turning on the radio, the BBC,

to hear the news because we could
hear what was really going on

in Portugal only
from the BBC Overseas Service,

because it was all lies in Portugal.

My grandmother said to me once,

"You know, you must
always obey your husband.

"You must never go against him
or say anything against him

"and never cross him. Whatever
he wants, you have to do."

But I just didn't take
any notice of it,

but it must have sunk in because I
was pretty obedient with my husband.

PAULA LAUGHS

It must've sunk in, you know?

So women get quite a raw deal
in Portugal at this time?

They do. They do now, I'm sure.

That's what my father said -

"This isn't a place for women,
you must go away."

NEWSREEL: At the
Slade School

in University
College London,

about 400 students apply
for admission every January.

We had to draw from sculptures,

old-fashioned sculptures
like Michelangelo and so on.

We had a room full of them.

And we had to sit there
copying them.

I didn't like doing that,

so I hid behind them
and I did my own pictures.

So they allowed me
to go to the life classes,

so I could draw from the model.

But at the same time as this,

I loved doing things
from the imagination.

I always had a corner
in the antique room

where I could put up
an easel and a canvas,

and do a picture from my head.

And, of course, then one
becomes very self-conscious

at art school, being a day girl,
not being an intellectual,

the restricted way of teaching
in those days,

the Euston Road method,
which I could not do.

You lose your...

It's not so much your confidence
you lose, you lose your...

You hide more.

Somebody said that women
would have to marry

so they could support the men,

give the moral support
as well as financial.

The smartest men's student,
the cleverest,

wanted to go to bed with me,

and I think that came above
everything else.

There were others that seemed
to admire what I did.

But the elite, no.

And I wanted to be like them.

And I wanted to learn
how to be like them.

You know, I wanted to be
part of that.

And how was it that you met Dad?
You met him at a party, didn't you?

Yeah, I met him.
I'd seen him before.

And we were at a party
in Seymour Place,

something to do with the Queen
being crowned or something,

and I was keen on a guy -
I don't remember, John something -

and he was there
with his girlfriend.

So I left him and I went downstairs,

and I suddenly felt the feet
coming down after me.

It was your father.

And he said,
"Come in here."

It was a room,

an empty room
belonging to another student,

and he said,
"Take down your knickers."

I didn't even say, "What?"

I just did it.

I've done a picture of it
called The Wedding Guest,

as a matter of fact.

That's why I
can talk about it.

Only the wedding guest is
a bit older than I was,

because I was very, very young.

I was a virgin, so you can imagine
the mess that caused.

He could at least
have taken me in a taxi,

or hailed a taxi or something.

Not at all.
He stayed in there tidying up.

One day, I went to the movies
in Chelsea,

one of those classic cinemas.

I never, in my life,
have left a film, ever.

And some time during the movie,
I said, "I've got to go."

And there, in the street,
was your father.

Imagine? What a coincidence.

It was just strange.

And he said, "You come with me."

He took me down to his studio
by the river

and he said, "Well, I really would
like to do a picture of you."

And it was a wonderful picture.

I'm nude, of course, and he
painted it for quite a long time.

There were quite
a lot of intermissions.

Why? To make love?

THEY CHUCKLE

And I spent all my time there,
you know?

Yeah.

Were you a good model? Yeah.

I did as I was told, as always.

I still do!

And for him, of course,
I did everything.

Everything he wanted.

He was the big star of the Slade
when Paula was there as a student,

cos he had a show with the sort of
leading gallery of the time

shortly after he left the Slade,

the Hanover Gallery, so, you know,
it was very glamorous for Paula.

Did you fall for him right away?

Yes.

Because he was so intelligent

and he knew so much
about painting.

# All for just the
chance to love you

# Would I love you,
love you, love you

# To take you
away in my arms

# Has always
been my goal... #

I thought he was so smart,
so clever.

He was a friend of Francis Bacon
and David Sylvester.

He drank at the Colony Room.

He was just...

an extraordinary man.

And he was a very good painter.

Although, he was married.

His wife was a ballet dancer
and he painted her very well too,

but that didn't come into it
because he lived in London

and his wife lived in Guildford.

Did he tell you that he was married?

Yeah! Right away?

Yeah, of course,
everybody knew he was married.

Yeah, sure.

But she never turned up
at the Slade or anything.

She was always at home.

I never saw her.
I only met her once.

I wasn't particularly jealous,
which is strange, isn't it?

He seemed so different, so
independent from other married men.

I had lots of abortions.

Not just me, but every girl...

at the Slade had them,

because, in those days, there wasn't
any contraception or anything

and they didn't care, you know,
the men didn't care

so you just got knocked up.

Knocked up.

"Oh, my God, I'm knocked up again,
what am I going to do?"

"Oh, I'm going to talk to so-and-so,

"who will ask his friend
if he can spare the time

"to come and see to you."

"Oh, good, thank you so much."

"You have to go to Soho and go
to a pub and meet this guy -

"he was a doctor -

"and ask him if he can come
and do it."

"Oh, all right, then,
I'll be there on Tuesday."

And these were
backstreet abortions,

he'd come to your house
and do it? Yeah.

That's how it was.

Everybody had one.

Did you ever think,
"I'll have the baby"?

Eventually you did, but at
that time, when you were young,

did you ever think,
"I'll just have the baby",

or was it a time when it was
too much of a shame?

I didn't dare come home with a baby.

My mother would kill me.

If she knew I was having an affair
with a married man, can you imagine?

I never talked to my parents
about it,

because I knew
that I was very young.

If they'd found out that summer,

they would have kept me in Portugal,
and I couldn't have done that,

because that would have been
the end of me.

I wouldn't have been an artist,
you see?

I would have been looked down on,

patronised as a single mother,

which now is fashionable,

but in those days in Portugal,
you can imagine.

I would have to stay,
I would never see Vic again.

My friend Teresa was in England.

She told Vic about it.

He said "Why can't she have
the child? Why can't she?"

You know, it was perfectly all right
for a young girl to have a child.

And Teresa said, "Look, you have
no idea what it's like in Portugal.

"It's a very conventional society

"and she'd be outcast",
you know, and all that.

Isn't that why you did
the abortion pictures,

to help change the law in Portugal?

Yes. Because it was forbidden
in Portugal.

And there was a referendum
for people to vote

to have abortions legally
and nobody went to vote.

Right. That was the first referendum
in 1998, wasn't it,

when there weren't enough votes
to change the law?

Yes. I did the pictures
to make people go to vote

because I had to say, you have
to have proper clinics to do it.

The stories we heard of, you know...

of fish wives doing it on the beach

and I knew of a cousin of mine

that aborted one
of his girlfriend's,

and she turned up.

They threw her in the water
and she turned up

with her belly all full of water,
you know,

all swollen on the beach,

and everybody knew,
but he wasn't arrested.

Everybody did it,
it was just normal.

So he killed his girlfriend,
basically?

Yes.

Yes, he did.

Oh, my God.

And what was the reaction
to the pictures like in Portugal?

It was very good because
they were shown at the Gulbenkian.

And women,
when they came to see it...

..whispered and talked to each other
and were surprised, you know?

It was quite a surprise.

I did prints too because I thought
where the pictures couldn't go,

the prints would go, you see?

Yes. Because they're easier
to transport.

And did they go all over Portugal,
the prints?

I think they went
to several places, yes.

They were political things,
you know,

that I wanted to show,
that it wasn't fair.

The very harsh brutality
of her pictures

at the time and
the suffering of women

and how she expressed this,

even if it was, for many people,
in an aggressive way,

it was an influence.

The echo she brought indirectly,

even if you liked the pictures
or if you didn't like the pictures,

was a tremendous way
to really show

that we cannot go on
with this kind of stuff any more.

And then they had
another referendum in 2007

and voted in favour of abortion,
didn't they?

Yes.

It was actually
quite influential

and a lot of people
were very cross at her,

those of them who were
for the preservation...

Against abortion,
and they were very mad at her,

because they realised
that she had touched a nerve.

The pain, the physical pain
and the erotic...

Those girls in the pictures
are in the position

which could be either
for penetration

of some kind
of abortionist's hand...

..or penetration from her lover,

one or the other,
they were both equal.

And the two things are deeply tied
in those pictures

and they mean a great deal to me.

I think it's the best thing
I've ever done,

because they're totally true.

The actual resolve to survive,

the kind of defiance

and the fact that
you never feel guilt, ever.

And you don't, because guilt
doesn't come into it.

It's not important.
It's a form of survival.

It's the only thing
that I will fight for,

because I think that it's atrocious
that it's forbidden, I really do.

They have no idea, because it will
go on always, you see, always.

Sacrifice is something she uses
to prove her love, somehow.

"Look how much I love you,

"I will do anything for you.

"I will be butchered,

"I will get knocked up
over and over again.

"I'll go through absolutely
anything, this is my love.

"And you screw me,
that is your love."

When I got pregnant with Cassie,

I decided, "This time, I'm not
going to have an abortion."

And I was alone in the house...

..and Vic rang me up...

..and said to me,

"I'm afraid I'm going back
to my wife."

Is this because
he knew you were pregnant?

Yes, he knew I was pregnant, yes.

And the next thing I did
was to ring up my dad.

And he said, "Don't worry,
I'll be there in two days,

"and I'll bring you back with me."

And he did. In two days,
he was in England from Portugal,

driving like anything
and I had to tell him.

We went to Soho.

We walked around and he said,
"Well, don't worry,

"I'll take you back to Portugal.

"We're going to buy some clothes
because you're fat."

And he got me in the car...

and we spent all the way back,
playing opera...

and eating wonderfully,

stopping at nice hotels.

We got there and he said,

"Don't worry about your mother,

"I've taken her to the beach
and she screamed all she could."

And next thing I knew,
Cassie was born.

What was it like,
suddenly being a mum?

After you had
had all those abortions

and you were back in Portugal
alone with a daughter,

what was that like?

Well, I was a bit scared at first,

that people would treat me
very badly,

and humiliate me,
but in fact they didn't.

Almost like village people,
they accepted it.

It was very, very, very common,
but not in the middle-classes.

No. And my mother, I think,
must have been pretty distraught.

'Dad told me that being thought of
as a future star of the art world

'couldn't make up for
feeling hungry every day.

'He had to rely on his friend
Francis Bacon to buy him breakfast,

'often the only meal of the day,

'and he said he couldn't
stop thinking about Mum

'and the daughter he didn't know.'

So when did Dad
eventually leave his wife?

Oh, weeks later, weeks later.

He wrote to my father and my father
wrote back and said, "Come over."

Just like that.

He's a person that knew my work,

and certainly better than
anybody else in the world.

And he could tell what I was about

just from looking at the work,
really.

And there's nothing
more special than that.

I mean if your work,
if there is somebody

that actually understands
your work really well,

then that person will
understand you really well.

Well, we're living in this house
that had been my grandparents' house

that I loved.

It was really marvellous
to be there all year round.

When we got married, it was...
I was so delighted.

My work became very exuberant...

..and very gutsy then, and I was
very interested in a kind of energy.

So I was able to play again.

I felt that I was playing
with all these paints

and it was a very exciting time
for me.

Everything became very visceral
and sexual,

and being pregnant,
all stuffed up with things.

Either sex things or babies or food
going in the other end!

The act of giving birth
seemed to me to be separate

from the child being born,

and it had something to do
with my own body and with Vic.

The outcome of it,
which was the children,

were the outcome of it,
not what it was for.

It was like having a great
big screw, that's what it was.

That's what it was like.

A kind of general feeling

of sexuality and pain
joined up together,

which was very interesting.

Dad was THE artist.

He was the main artist,
he was the better known.

Mum was younger and he wasn't
her tutor in any way,

he didn't tell her what to do,
he just supported her.

Where they did affect each other,
is that they painted in the adega.

She was on one side,
he was on the other,

there was just a screen of rush
matting that hung between the two.

But Mum just painted
and painted and painted,

the productivity was just endless.

And on the other side of the screen,
Dad couldn't work.

The critical voice in his head
was catastrophic.

Completely crippled him.

The only reason some of the
paintings in this room survive

is because Baba would steal them.

"Oh, this looks nice.
I'll have it for my living room!"

You know, just take them away,

or else they would have been
painted over.

MUSIC: Naufragio
by Amalia Rodrigues

We had a dictator called Salazar.

And I was painting a picture
against Salazar,

which is called,
Salazar a Vomitar a Patria.

He's vomiting the nation.

And as I was painting it,
I began to feel sorry for him.

You felt sorry for the dictator,
Salazar?

Why?

I don't know.

It's one thing that happens
in pictures,

you never know what you're going
to feel about them, you know? Yeah.

Of course, I didn't want to feel
sorry for him, for heaven's sake,

he was a brute -
a violent and sinister man.

Do you think that's
what pictures do,

that they help you understand
how you feel about something?

I think they certainly...

..manage to change your feelings.

I felt a feeling for him
that wasn't allowed,

and it certainly wasn't even,
in real life, true.

But in the picture, it was allowed.

So the picture actually allows you

to feel all sorts
of forbidden things,

and that is why you do pictures,

because you get at things
that you didn't realise, actually,

and you're allowed to do
outrageous thing, and everything.

I looked at those old magazines
of Blanco y Negro

that my grandfather had.

And I loved those because they
had lots of people hitting people.

All cartoons, I loved cartoons,
old cartoons,

because they were clear, the lines,

you could tell what they were doing
and they were funny.

I started using the books,
by tearing them up, you know,

and do what's called collages.

that is to say

it was all a way of discovering,
in there, a figure,

the sensual pleasure,
that's what it is.

A sensual pleasure
of cutting.

I had so many dolls
when I was little

and this particular baby doll
felt like flesh.

It was supposed to.

I remember saying, "Look at this
little baby, isn't it cute, Mum?"

And I remember then going and then
cutting all of its fingers off.

Then I cried apparently, so my
mother says, after having done it.

My mother used to say,

"You do things, and then you say
you're sorry afterwards."

She said it to me
just before she died.

But my pictures, meaning, "Well, of
course you go and do these things

"and then you worry about it
and then you reflected."

And the collages became...

associated to the politics
of what was going on in the country.

For instance, they were
all fighting the Angolans.

I thought of Angola.
A picture I did, quite long.

I called it...

Because that's what they were
doing there, in the time of Salazar.

The Portuguese establishment
was horrified,

but impressed as hell.

They tried to sort of
play her down, saying,

"Oh, she creates some monsters.

"Yes, I'm sure it's very good,

"but I couldn't live
with that stuff."

I'm surprised she was not bothered
directly by the establishment.

And by the ministry for information.
Yes.

Why do you think
they didn't harass her more?

I don't know. To tell you the truth,
that's a mystery. I don't know.

I think there is probably
an element of respect,

but their respect is not genuine
respect as we understand it,

it is something else.

"If we interfere with this person,

"goodness knows
what's going to happen."

You weren't afraid that the
government would come after you?

No. Why not?

I wasn't afraid.

Oh, if I was taken to court,
I'd explain to them what happens...

and tell them what goes on.

How women suffer.
It's totally unfair.

The artists,

they formed a way in which many kind
of messages were put across.

Don't forget
we had a one-party system,

we had a terrible censorship,

there was no liberty of the press,
there was no liberty at all.

We had a secret police,
and we were a blocked country

so the way
in which musicians, painters,

sculptors expressed themselves,

it was easier to pass that message

because censors were not so
attentive to that kind of thing.

Although Dad
wasn't painting very much,

he helped Mum with her work,

not only in the studio
but also by writing about it.

I remember him talking about
incredibly complex things

in a way that even I, as a child,
could understand.

And by being able to explain to Mum,

what otherwise
came unconsciously to her,

he gave her the courage
to take bigger risks.

It wasn't like, you know, some men
are jealous of their wives,

he never was.

"The time of the day in that place,
of that climate,

"has the presence of an animal,

"a heavy, uneasy,
sun-baked thing

"which twitters and
whines in one's ear.

"One must tease it, humiliate it,
gouge it, pity it.

"The picture becomes its face.

"If it can be described,
it can be forgiven

"for being what it is,

"and made lovable, even.

"Such creatures fawning,
violent, lethargic, illusive,

"rush about or wander,
lost, singly,

"and even in packs.

"For Paula, painting is
trapping them, breaking them,

"putting on brands
and hanging them,

"groomed and pampered on the wall."

It's really very, very good, this.

This is... This...

It need not...no-one else
to write after this.

This is fabulous.

And it's just true.

Then Vicky came along, right?

Yes.

And then there was me.

And suddenly you had a big family.

And you continued making political
pictures like The Dogs At Barcelona.

That's a wonderful picture,
one of my best pictures.

It's a true story.

In Barcelona, the Franco regime,

they wanted to poison
the stray dogs,

and they threw meat into the streets
that was poisoned,

and dogs ate them

and they all died.

And even starving people,
who didn't realise, and kids

picked it up and ate it, right?
It was indiscriminate.

I thought it was like Portugal,
you see, the indiscriminate killing.

But...I was doing this picture.

I did all this

but I didn't know
what to put up here.

And then I went downstairs and
we'd met recently a beautiful girl,

she looked like Claudia Cardinale,
she was Italian,

and Dad really liked her, etc.

And I went down to the living room
and there was Dad snogging her.

He was kissing this girl.

I just ran away,
I didn't say anything.

I ran to my best friend
and I was crying.

I said, "Oh, Vic was snogging
with this woman."

And lo and behold,
she started crying too.

I was very surprised.

Afterwards, I knew that
she had been shagging Dad

and wanted him to leave me
to go and live with her.

She was seeing him too?

She was in love with Dad.

And she...

But I had something to put on here,

which was the figure of the woman
that he was snogging.

I put it up here
with a tongue hanging out.

It doesn't look like a tongue,
it looks like a willy.

And it was her figure,
this monstrous creature there.

So she becomes the poison, in a way?

Yeah, she becomes the lewd monster
with the tongue hanging out.

And then, interestingly,
Dad wrote about this picture

for your exhibition in 1965,

that when the picture had reached
the press, there was a girl

that was threatening
the security of the family,

that the picture, itself,
was a way of you figuring out

what you thought about yourself and
the world and him and everything.

You poured it all into this picture?
Absolutely.

That is always the case.

Yes.

And it was right.

Obviously, I was terribly jealous.

I was desperately jealous.

Sick with jealousy,
when I found out.

Sick. Sick with it, when he thought

that he should be allowed to do this
and that, you know.

I never said anything

because I never, never want
to put him off.

Because if I become demanding or
something like that, he might go.

I just was there.

I was really just some kind of
passive thing there for his use.

But never mind because later on
in the work,

I could do something about it.

But personally,
it's always difficult

to do things on a personal nature.

It is always easier to do it in
pictures than to do it personally.

You know, one's so inhibited.

I always thought he might leave...

..but what had happened was that
I tried not to care so much.

When he had his first heart attack,
which he had very young...

..32, or something, I realised
that I couldn't survive.

I'd better do something,

perhaps be interested in other men
or something,

because if he died,
I wouldn't survive.

And I did. I did.

And it was terrible then, because
it was like a kind of amputation.

We were so tied. I was so tied
to him, so bound to him.

MUSIC: Gimme Some Lovin'
by Spencer Davis Group

# Hey!

# Well, my temperature's rising
got my feet on the floor

# Crazy people rocking
cos they want to some more

# Let me in, baby
I don't know what you got

# But you better take it easy
Cos this place is hot

# And I'm so glad we made it

# So glad we made it

# But won't you
give me some lovin'?

# Gimme some lovin'

# Gimme some lovin' every day

# Hey! #

The '60s, the 1960s -
very, very different.

Everybody was fucking around.

It wasn't...

I had a lover. Yes, I had a lover.

I had several, as a matter of fact,

but it was normal,

as my husband did.

He had them as well,
lots of them.

That painting, The Hangman,
that's her getting her revenge

on all her various lovers.
Yeah, she thought,

"I can kill them in my painting."

Either because they were wary
of continuing a relationship

where they also liked the husband,

or maybe it was not something
that they wanted to continue.

They probably knew Dad,

so it was probably a bit awkward.

If she can face things head-on
in the work

and she uses everything,
and there's always sex in there.

Everything's erotic.

Work itself is erotic.

Doing work, that is to say drawing,
is an erotic activity...

..actually.

She was so physically glamorous
or seemed to be as a small child,

that you could only sort of stand

in the corner of the room
and watch her,

you know, dressing up to go out or
putting on her make-up or whatever,

and she was just so beautiful.

She was sort of like a film star.

I think I always felt

like we weren't
really the main story, you know?!

We were the kind
of bit-part players.

We were the subplot,
very much a subplot.

It was brush or baby -
that was always the case.

Doing pictures has nothing to do
with having children.

You do the pictures,
you have the children.

It's not part of the same life.

Painting pictures
is like being a man, really.

It's the part of you
that's the man.

Even the way you stand or sit,
confronting the work like a man

and it has to do
with the aggressive part.

It has the kind of push,
the thrust,

which you must
normally associate

with what being
a man is, I don't know,

but I always thought
that this kind of having babies,

playing at house,

it's like when you're little
and you pretend cooking supper,

that sort of thing, there was a sort
of play acting element in it

whilst when you were,
like, doing a picture,

you were much more yourself.

I love my children,
I'm not saying that, I do,

but it's just different.

They were never in the studio.

In Portugal, they were never allowed
to come into the studio, never.

She is her work
and her work is her.

There is no way to extricate
yourself from that

and switch off and be a mother,
a lover, a friend.

There was something that wasn't
quite reachable with Mum.

So a lot of early childhood memories
are about

wanting something I couldn't get.

Somehow I didn't feel
the same about Dad,

because, I don't know, maybe he just
seemed to be more available somehow.

Mum was really...

There was always some sort of wall
between her and me

and probably all of us,
I don't know.

Dad was more real, somehow.

It's interesting that there is
so much emotion and power

and intensity in your pictures,

and yet in your personal life,

you're quite quiet
and private and closed.

Yes. Would you say?

Yes. Shy?

I'm shy. I'm shy. I never...

When Dad would be speaking
with his friends,

I remember once...

..people sitting around the fire
and he was talking,

talking about art is this,
that, the other.

I was just listening.

And suddenly he asked me,
"What do you think?"

I tell you, I only wish the floor
had opened out and swallowed me up.

I was so shy and so embarrassed
that I had been asked what I think.

I didn't say anything.

So in a way you put all of
those feelings into your pictures?

Yes. In my pictures,
I could do anything. Yeah.

If she hadn't been so shy,

if she had been able to talk
about her work,

if she had been busting balls,
or saying no, ever,

then, probably, she wouldn't
have needed to get it out

in her painting, you know?

Was the shyness actually
a symptom of depression?

I mean, did you always
suffer from depression?

I always suffered from depression.
Even as a little girl?

Yes, I did. Yes, I remember.

I remember being frightened
of everything,

being frightened of being
in the garden,

being frightened of playing
with Tony,

a little boy that was next door.

Alfredo, my teacher,
who came to teach me at home,

a Portuguese teacher,
I was terrified of him.

I was afraid of everything.

It's a wonder that I actually came
to the Slade, but I did.

When you'd get depressed,
did it stop you from working?

No, no. Working was good for it.

Working helped.

You told me that when you were
having a particularly bad depression

in 2007,
you did a series of pictures

which you locked away in a drawer
and haven't seen since?

Yeah...

Lila stands in for me.

She's always...

She's me, really.

That's how I was feeling.

So that when you get depressed,
it feels like your tied up?

Yes.

Well, you're kind of stuck, really,

and you hold on to things
that make you more stuck.

Like she's holding
this rubber thing, you see?

You hold on to the wrong things,
thinking they will help,

but on the contrary? Yes, exactly.

On the contrary.

I don't know good from bad.

And do you feel that you drew
your way out of your depression?

It helped a little.

But you did say
that when you finished them

that it helped you a lot.

Did I? Yeah?

But you've kept them and you won't
show them, sort of like your secret?

They were to be put in a drawer
and never seen again.

Why, do you think?

Because I was ashamed of them...

of being so depressed.

MUSIC: As Penas
by Amalia Rodrigues

'66 was the year that Dad

got officially
diagnosed with MS.

It only sunk in as Dad
started getting more and more...

incapacitated. You know, he had
the stick and then he had crutches.

And Mum went into
a massive depression.

I mean, she just kind of shut down.

I mean you can only take things...

Sometimes it takes a long time

before you can actually accept
things and take them on board.

And I think this was so
with his illness, really.

I remember you feeling helpless.

I remember you drinking a lot.

Yes, I drank a lot.

It's true.

I used to drink a lot.

Always red wine.

So much so, that my father said,

"Look, I must tell you this,

"drop the bottle
and pick up the brush."

He was worried.

When he died,
I took him to hospital.

I watched him die.

Just before he died,

my grandfather told Mum
that she should sell

his electronics business
and move to London.

But I remember Dad thinking this was
his chance to pay the family back

so he turned himself
into a businessman,

started wearing a suit
and convinced everyone

that, he, a painter
with limited Portuguese,

should take over
my grandfather's specialist

electrical engineering factory.

It was a disaster.

It was my fault.
I should have stopped him.

But I didn't.

Well, you didn't stand up to Dad
very often, though, did you?

Never. You never stood up to him.

So if he wanted to do something...
He'd do it.

He was really suffering.
He was suffering from the paralysis.

The business was going tits-up.

There was no money.

Everything was mortgaged
because of him.

So, it's not as if
this happened to Dad,

he caused this to happen.

He instigated it,
he drove it forward.

He was going to make it good,

and actually,
he was going to lose everything.

We lost everything.

We lost the Quinta,
we lost everything.

Everything.

So, when we came to live in London,

we were completely broke,
weren't we?

Yes.

MUSIC: Who Knows Where The Time
Goes? by Fairport Convention

# Across the evening sky

# All the birds are leaving

# But how can they know

# It's time for them to go?

# Before the winter fire... #

I had a dealer in Portugal

who used to come
and take away everything

I had on the floor of my studio,

and just the crappiest drawing,
he took everything away and sold it.

Did he give you good money?
Well, he cheated.

He said the pictures sold
for less money than they were.

And people used
to say to me,

"Oh, your pictures
are so expensive",

but I didn't think so, because
I didn't get that kind of money.

Actually, being an artist
during those years,

you did not expect to make money,
not like you might do nowadays.

You didn't expect to be able
to live off being an artist.

Between 1966 and 1979...

it was treading-water time.

Something must have got stuck.

I couldn't move on
and I couldn't do things properly.

Images began to be influenced
by pop art,

so I would draw things
much more naturalistic,

out of comic books and things
and cut them up...

..and the work went really
badly downhill.

The world seemed
to lose its reality.

My home, everything became
a place you looked at,

not a place that
you didn't take notice of.

That's what places are when they're
real - you don't notice them.

It became a place I saw
and walked in.

And then all this business with
lawyers and Portugal and everything,

it was just incredible.
It wasn't real.

The pictures suffer
if it's like that.

You couldn't make anything real.

Dr Hoerder recommended
I go to see a shrink,

because I was in a very bad way.

He said, "I think she must see
somebody, she's not very well."

And then, of course,
I had a Jungian analyst.

He helped a lot.

And it was my Jungian therapy
that I started in 1973,

and that awakened a lot of need

for thinking that it was
terribly important to go to the...

some kind of source,
imaginative source.

The imaginative source
that gave images

to what we've got inside
but we don't know what it is.

And through the fairytales
and folk tales,

there seemed to be
a pretty good picture.

Sometimes there's God, you know,

and sometimes there's
the folk tales.

All these things are the same thing,

that is to say
they all give a reflection

of what the mind is
and the imagination is.

It was also, I think,

possibly a reaction against
the disruption in our lives,

with the business and all that
side of living I hated.

We had terrible difficulties
until I wrote to the Gulbenkian.

I said, "Look, I need a grant

"but I don't know
what I'm going to have a grant for,

"I just have no money."

They said to me,
"Well, we'll give you a grant,

"you go and do whatever you like",

and that's when I went
to the British Museum,

in that round room
as it was years ago,

and I began to read fairy stories.

And I did all these drawings,

which I then gave to the Gulbenkian
thanking them for the grant.

I read Italian stories,
French stories, Portuguese stories,

the Portuguese stories are the most
cruel and the most close to me.

SHE SPEAKS PORTUGUESE

'Once upon a time,
there was a woman who was crying

'and crying because
she couldn't have a baby.

'And an old woman came up to her
and said, "What's the matter?'

"You can't have a baby?
Well, look, take this cake",

and she gave her a cake.

But the woman was afraid
the cake was poisoned,

so she gave it to her husband.

And the husband suddenly started,

"Oh, my God, my tummy's getting big,
my tummy's getting big.

"I can't fit into my trousers,
I don't know what the matter is."

And suddenly,
there was a big explosion,

and the trousers burst,
and out comes a baby.

The baby is just in mid-air
and the eagle comes down,

takes the baby to her nest

and looks after her as her daughter.

Gave her clothes, gave her food

and forbade her never to go
out of the nest.

She must stay in there always.

Then there was a milkmaid
who comes and does the washing

for the palace because there's
a great big palace, of course.

And she says,
"People say I'm ugly,

"and look, I can see now in
the reflection in this water

"that I'm actually beautiful."

Of course,
it's the girl being reflected

from the top that she can see,
not herself.

I like the idea of the man having
the baby and his gut bursting.

I like that he says,
"Oh, my tummy is getting fat,

"I can't get into my trousers."
I love that.

It kind of serves him right.

I don't mean that.
It serves him right because...?

Well, the men never have the babies,
do they?

I remember Mum working really hard
throughout the 1970s,

but her collages pictures
didn't break through in London.

Dad, meanwhile, asked me
to time him every day

as he walked to the lamppost
and back,

and every day, he'd take
a few more seconds.

No-one was making any money,

and it wasn't long before
the Gulbenkian grant ran out.

It was only thanks to Rudy
who kept me going, really.

I met him at a party in 1973,

and Rudy, for good or for bad,
he was able to advise me.

He was a practical man, to do with
businesses and things like that.

And Vic was mad by then
because he was taking cortisone

and he sometimes had temper
flare-outs, which would...

He was like a mad person, really,
how the cortisone affected him.

Mad.

Rudy, would say, "Listen,
you must just work", and I did.

He was a very, very strong
influence.

A bit of a bully,
but that's what I needed.

Dad knew about it and Mum and Dad
came to some sort of agreement

so a deal was struck.

You can love someone very much,
even if you're unfaithful to them.

It's not very nice,
or even respectable,

but you love them just as much.

And I loved Vic just the same.

And I just had this other man
who paid for things.

MUSIC: La Norma, Act I: 'Casta Diva'
by Jana Jonasova

And I think it was only afterwards

when my private life
came back into the work

that things began
to get a bit better.

But this was already 1979,
you see, so things were changing.

You didn't have to do art any more.

It was so disgusting to do art,
there's nothing worse.

So, it was like freedom again.

Then I became more down to earth
and came to the monkey and the bear

and the unfaithful wife,

which was a really
personal story.

It was Vic's story.

He had the theatre
when he was a boy,

with a dog with one ear,
a monkey and a bear.

He would entertain soldiers
doing little puppets with them,

and I thought,
"God, that's fantastic."

And I drew that down and I realised
that the monkey was him

and the bear was Rudy,
and then I introduced...

The dog with the one ear
disappeared very quickly,

and a woman came in,
which was myself.

And all these...

Then, of course,
variations on this took place.

It was great fun.

Of course,
I can say that now

but I wouldn't have
said so at the time.

No-one knew, except Vic.

In this picture, the monkey
beats his adulterous wife,

and then the next one, where the
wife cuts off the monkey's tail.

I realise that what she's doing
is not cutting off his tail,

she's cutting herself off from him.

She's separating, that's what
she's doing in the picture,

what I did unconsciously.

I called it that at the time cos
I didn't realise what was going on,

but that's what was going on
in my life.

I was trying to cut myself away
from Vic...

in order to survive.

I think Dad probably
thought that was it.

And the only thing he could do -

end of act two, lose your house,
lose your wife, dog dies, you know?

Act two, turning point,
you bloody get on with it.

So, after a lifetime, so far,
for him, of having painter's block,

if you will, when things couldn't be
at their worst, he starts to paint?

Yes. When it really took off

was when he had nothing else
to fall back on.

All was lost, pretty much.

He was incredibly brave.

He went to SPACE studio
got himself a studio.

He bought
these canvasses,

which were a mile long...

He was already limping
from MS, with crutches,

and he moved into these
crappy studios

and started painting
these big paintings.

I thought, "Who on Earth
is going to buy

"these big pictures?
He must be crazy."

It's when he risked everything
and he went for it

that he got there.

And it made a big impact.

Like Nick Serota
giving him a show

at the Whitechapel.

Because it made Vic's life,
you know?

It did, it made Vic's life.

They both became successful
in the '80s.

But the sort of exhibition that
really did the trick for Paula,

was that show in 1978, which was
mostly about looking after Vic.

He was the dog, wasn't he,
or the fox?

She couldn't do any of
that caring stuff.

She couldn't do it with her children
and she couldn't do it with Dad.

And Dad didn't
want it either,

because it
was humiliating,

and he didn't want their
relationship to be about that.

She observed the feeding
of the doggie,

but that wasn't her doing it.

And she wouldn't have made him
take his medicine,

she couldn't make anybody do
anything, literally, like that.

When you feed medicine into a dog,

you have to open his mouth by force,
like this,

and then put in the medicine.

I thought there is both tenderness
and aggression

so I thought
that all those things together

were what it was like
at the time, you see?

Because there are
so many mixed feelings

about somebody who was very ill.

No matter how much you love them,

you resent them dreadfully
for being ill.

It was so liked...

..the girls and dogs...

..that I got a call
from the Marlborough.

Marlborough was a business
that was founded just after the war,

and we got a reputation for
representing important artists -

Francis Bacon, Henry Moore,

Barbara Hepworth,
Lucien Freud.

We had galleries in New York,
we had galleries in Madrid,

so we could offer someone like Paula
a place on the international stage.

And the first pictures
that we got from her were,

up to then,
her greatest paintings, I felt.

The Family was about Vic.

They're trying anything to get
their father to come alive,

rubbing themselves against him
and everything.

I used to bring all my pictures and
hang them up in front of his bed

for him to see. In this room, right?

This room, yeah.
He would be lying there...

Here, the light's up there. Yeah.

And I'd say, "What do you think
of this, then?"

"Just paint it all out."

He said, The Maids, I had it here.

He said, "Look, you've got some
beautifully painted figures there,

"and you've got rubbish
furniture behind it.

"It's killing the picture.
Paint it all out."

So I went back
and painted it all out.

Did he also help you
with the subject matter,

the content of the pictures?

No.

No, that was nothing to do with him.
It didn't...

But I mean how it's made
is important, isn't it?

Despite being
very incapacitated

by the stage
I met him,

and very frail, he still seemed
intensely present and sharp.

You could see him
appraising everything

that was going on around him.

She painted Departure,
which is this saying goodbye to Dad.

There he is with his trunk, packed.

She's combing his hair,
he's going off.

"That's the best", he said.

That's the best,
because he knew it was himself.

I went to see Dad, gave him
a big kiss on the cheek and said,

"I've got the most terrible cold",

and he went... "Thanks."

But he was grateful and
he was furious at the same time

as if he wanted to die,

but he hadn't anticipated that this
was the way he was going to do it.

Anyway, he got my cold
and then he died a week later,

because he'd refused any...

I think he refused antibiotics
or anything to clear his lungs,

so his lungs filled up with fluid
and he died.

She suddenly broke down.

I mean, she wailed.

She'd been with him when he died.

We were all sleeping on the floor
in various rooms in the flat,

and she started yelling,

"Who's going to help me
with my work now?!

"Who's going to help me
with my work?!

"He didn't even say goodbye!
He didn't even say goodbye!"

I actually told mum this story
recently, and she was horrified.

She said, "What a selfish cow I am."

And then dad's best friend
John Mills turned up

at 8.00 that morning and said,

"Vic's left a message,
a goodbye message for you.

"It's in a secret file
called 'Adieu.' "

"Paula, I'm uncomfortable now
all the time.

"Most of me is gone already.

"It only remains for me to dispose
of the other little bit

"while I still can.

"I don't want to know
what the bitter end is.

"This will be a lonely moment,
I imagine.

"Sell my things slowly and wisely.

"I know you will paint even better.

"Trust yourself and you will be
your own best friend.

"As well as sadness,
you may also feel relief.

"Don't feel badly about that.

"Enjoy life, it's all there is.

"The kids are great.

"All my love, Vic."

Yeah.

Yeah.

Mum has carried that note
with her ever since,

often close to her heart.

It seemed to give her the strength
to trust herself.

Well, it was very odd. It was
like the baton being passed on.

It was very odd, because your father
had the Whitechapel show

and then she had
the Serpentine show.

Her career took off with that,
his career...

That was the climax of it.

One of the last things
he said to her

was that she should do The Dance,

and The Dance was
a very moving farewell.

A sort of memory, I suppose,

of their lovely time in Portugal.

But he's dancing...
He's dancing with someone else.

With another girl.

Yes, but then there's this

"Liberty Leading the People"
type of figure on the left.

That's what she's got to do -

to go into the future,
bold as brass.

Alone. Alone.

You feel she could knock out
everyone flat.

She sort of arrived
with this kind of...

important show.

The body of work that comprised
the Serpentine show

told a very
particular story.

A story that had a trajectory

that people could understand
and empathise with.

For the Serpentine show,
it was a tremendous success for her

in so many ways.

But we didn't realise at that time

what an effect
she was going to have.

MUSIC: Havemos De Ir A Viana
by Amalia Rodrigues

The first time I met Paula was
actually at her one-man show

at the Serpentine in Hyde Park.

And in those days,
it was rather unusual

for a woman to have
a one-man show.

I had been part of the
first post-war feminist movement

in which we were looking for
exceptional figures, examples,

and models for us to emulate,

and Paula is really
part of a generation

that enabled all those
women artists now,

who in spite of
continuing difficulties

are nevertheless in
a very different place.

This is when Charles Saatchi
comes into the equation.

I mean one forgets
how important he was

as a force in the art world
in those days.

He rang me, I remember, saying I had
just been to see the Rego show

at the Serpentine and I was
absolutely blown away

by the new paintings.

That was a relationship
which lasted for 20 years,

something like that.

At last, I could live
without having to worry,

paying bills and stuff like that -

that was the biggest thing of all,
to be able to have money.

Fantastic.

And you know, there is
an element also of relief

that somebody is not suffering
so much.

My dear, it is dreadful, that.

And in the house,
they are so sick, so sick.

Oh, no.

I was there, involved in the thing
we always had together,

which was the painting,
as I still am.

Except now he doesn't speak to me.

I missed him and I wanted
to do something for him,

not for him but about him.

I didn't know how.

I mean it was difficult.

So I did Dog Woman.

The Dog Women are being
told what to do by him.

Bad Dog is a girl being
kicked out of the bed

because she's pissed the bed.

There is one
which was the woman

sleeping on her
owner's coat,

which was his blazer.

She's helping to be shot.

Yes.

Did making these pictures
help the grief?

Well, yes.

It did because I liked them.

They were what I felt.

Usually she's trying to get
that twist, that perversity,

that other thing
that's going on between people.

It's not love, hate...

It's love and hate, you know?

It's stroking and hitting.

She's using me,
you know, as her...

but I have never felt
like your mother

was really painting me.

It's someone else
she sees through me -

either herself or another person.

Somebody once was looking
at a woman...

..and said to her...

"That's you, Lila", and she said,

"No, that's Dog Woman."

THEY CHUCKLE

Do you remember in
the Saatchi collection?

THEY SPEAK IN PORTUGUESE

THEY LAUGH

SONG: La Gioconda: Act III
'Dance Of The Hours'

There's the
young ostriches

and the old ostriches,
which are saggy.

They're sad. Are they?

Yes. They're lying there, asleep,

and one of them is waiting
for a kiss, like that.

They had no boyfriends,
they had nothing.

There weren't any male ostriches
and they were just on their own,

prancing around and just being silly

and waiting for a kiss,
waiting for love.

They don't have anybody,
they're lonely.

Lonely ostriches!

She chose Disney films as a theme

and then put her own spin
on them all

so she did
the Ostriches from Fantasia.

Did she do Snow White?

And one of the stories she wanted
to illustrate was Pinocchio.

And she knew I was
a model maker

and she asked me
to make a Pinocchio,

because she liked to
have props to work from.

And Saatchi came
to my studio

and he looked at
that little boy,

Pinocchio, and he said,
"What's that? Who did that?"

I said, "My son-in-law, Ron Mueck."

"Oh", he said, "we'll call him
a new British artist."

I said, "But he's Australian."

"Never mind."

And Charles Saatchi said,

"Make some more stuff
and I'll buy it",

and that meant I could stop
my commercial work

for a period of time.

He purchased all those things
that I made,

and one of them was Dead Dad.

EMOTIVE MUSIC

Paula has some sort
of magic power.

I know people who sit for Paula
are sort of scared stiff,

because she sort of casts spells
on people and things, doesn't she?

Quite consciously.
If she doesn't like you

and she puts you in a picture,
you'd want to watch out!

She often talks about how you
can change the past in a painting,

you can do something that you
maybe didn't have the guts to do,

but you might have wished
you had done at the time.

That's why I did my guardian angel.

That guardian angel I did,
she exists, my God, she does,

that guardian angel.

I did her after the Amaro pictures,

you know, from the book.

When you're doing a book like that,

you go into the book,

you're part of it,
you're actually in there.

And you can go to places
where even the author doesn't go.

And you can bring some justice
where justice is needed.

I know this sounds awful,

but there is some revenge
sometimes necessary,

and I can provide that.

It was a big, big statement

and it was terribly important
to do them.

I think it's the most ambitious
thing I've ever done, actually.

I did them with
a kind of wanting to

because it had all sorts
of things brought together.

It was to do with my father,
because it was the book he liked,

it was to do with Portugal,
obviously,

it was to do with a love story,
a forbidden love,

but it was a love story.

Anti-clerical or not,
it was a love story,

and the fact that the girl gets
pregnant and she's abandoned

and then she's sent somewhere
to have a child...

In one of the versions of the book,
the priest kills it.

He drowns the child,

strangles it
and drowns it.

And at the end, I did The Angel,

because The Angel
was going to punish

everybody that had
done that.

The priest, everyone.

Brother Amaro.

Everyone.

And I did her
after The Coop,

with all these pregnant
women in this room,

and I knew these women were
all going to get abortions,

which brought back the pain
and all the suffering from Slade.

I knew that they would have
to have some guardian angel

to see that they wouldn't cop it.

That was the angel I did,
you know, and it exists.

If you paint something dark,
that you're scared of,

does it make you
feel better, even then?

Yeah, even now.

I do, actually.

It makes me feel better.

I'm really...

..married to my pictures.

It makes me...

It does, when I do something
that I think maybe is good...

..I feel so much better.

So it's like an exorcism?

And I'm relieved.

Though the fear goes
into the picture.

I wish I could...

I'm always looking for stories
and things that...

..give me that possibility.

But certainly,
the angel is still useful.

I feel very strongly
about that picture.

It's like those things
you see in churches, you know?

Yeah. Like that.

CHORAL SINGING

When the President, Jorge Sampaio,
came to London in a visit,

he came to my studio,
took me aside and said,

"We'd like you to do for the chapel
in the Palacio de Belem",

which is the President's
official residency,

"more pictures on the life
of the Virgin Mary."

The preparation she did for that,

biblical studies
from the 13th century onwards,

I then fully understood
that religion

played a part in her life.

I wanted to do a schoolgirl,

because that's what she was

so I made her very young.

My granddaughter sat for it.

You imagine a modern girl,
that happening to.

I mean lots of young teenagers
have babies now, don't they?

We've all been in that situation,
so we know what it feels like.

Anyway, I thought I would show
her actually having the baby,

which is not often shown.

You sometimes see her with a
big tummy, but never giving birth.

So, it's actually
what's in the book,

only there's a meeting between
the story and my experience.

And everyone was saying
this would be not accepted,

you will have a terrible problem,

so I called the church hierarchy.

I called the cardinal, and we went
around and he was very impressed.

Very impressed.

So they were accepted even
by the religious hierarchy

as something
that had to be mentioned.

But do you believe in God?
Of course I do.

Of course I believe in God.

You've lived your life
in a different way

from how the church would
want you to live it. You bet.

I do believe in God
and the Virgin Mary.

I like those stories.

The church is not necessarily
a good representation of God,

is what you're saying?

No, they do terrible things.

They martyr people,
they censor them,

everything is forbidden,
it's not free.

Sometimes it's cruel
and forbidding of everything.

Lot number 38 is the Paula Rego,
Looking Out.

Sold as viewed.

I'm going to start the bidding here
at 380,000. 400,000. 420,000 now.

Obviously I knew you
had a tough time,

but what I didn't know before
we made this film, Mum,

was how much you suffered
from shyness and self-doubt

and depression, but despite that,
perhaps even because of it,

you've become incredibly successful.

I mean, you've been made
a Dame by the Queen,

had countless of books
written about you and your work,

three kids,
even had a museum built for you.

Last chance now, at £800,000.

So, when you look back, what is it
that you're most proud of?

Winning the summer prize.

At the Slade? Are you?

Yeah.

Why is that so special for you?

Because there were so many
good artists there

and I got the prize.

And you were young, weren't you? 19?
Yes.

One of the first things
that I remember

you telling me
when I was a little kid

is that work is the most
important thing in life.

It's true.

I'm glad I told you that!

It's true.

It is for me.

MUSIC: Gaivota
by Amalia Rodrigues