Echoes of Matter: Leal Pereira on Waste, Memory, and Meaning

Leal Pereira’s work captivates with its independence, uniqueness, and above all — its impermanence. Some of his sculptural installations exist only long enough to be photographed, vanishing soon after, like the sand mandalas of distant Tibet, where creation is both a spiritual offering and a fleeting gesture. In Leal’s practice, the act of making becomes as important as the object itself — a ritual of presence, enjoyment, and intentional disappearance.

It was precisely this concept that drew us in: art not as a commodity, but as a living process, rooted in material memory, natural cycles, and poetic transformation.

In this interview, we follow Leal through metal, shells, discarded fragments, and the layered meaning behind each ephemeral creation.

Did you study art or design, or are you self-taught?

Born in Marinha Grande, a town near to the coast with a rich industrial heritage and famously known as the 'Capital of Glass' due to its long-standing tradition in glass manufacturing, there I live during most of my life until I decide to study welding, in IEFP Tomar, getting my European Certification in Welding and Welding Engineering Technology in MIG/MAG, TIG and SER after 3 years, succeeding to work the next two years on ironwork and metal conservation and restoration, at which a passion for construction from scratch and recuperate old/discarded things emerged in myself but looking at the art world and realizing all the life and meaning inside it, I was inspired to pursue further education which led me to where I am today, pursuing a bachelor's degree in sculpture on Fine Arts Academy in Lisboa.

How did your relationship with found materials begin — beach trash, fragments, discarded stuff?Was there a key moment that started it all?

I can’t recall one specific memory that marked the beginning of this relationship, it feels something that grew very naturally alongside my life. Growing up by the sea, surrounded by a vast pine forest, I was always felt deeply connected to the nature around me, and over time, these fragments appear to leave echoes of stories lost/leaved and waiting to be found, in a certain way, using these fragments became a way of expressing myself, each work carries a small part of my soul gently left behind as I move forward.

Did you grow up with any connection to craftsmanship, manual work, or environmental thinking?

Growing up, I was lucky enough to live close to my grandparents and my uncle on my mom’s side. They came from a poor farm background and faced a lot of challenges, but their hard work and determination always shine through, carrying everything they could to make a better life for themselves and those around them. These are the persons that thought me in order to grow vegetables we need to plant seeds, thought me to take care of animals for later have food and eggs from them, they thought me that in life we need to grow and take care of things for later have some benefit from that because we are part of the nature and its beings not more.

Your series “Reflexos Abrangidos” feels like a fusion of sculpture, poetry, and activism. How did this collection come about, and what does it reflect about you and the world?

“Reflexos Abrangidos” emerged during my time at the Fine Arts Faculty in Lisboa, where a process of artistic investigation and personal reflection, rooted in a simple, yet profound object, a seashell. For me, the seashell during that time became a symbol of home and it carried echoes of the west coast of Portugal where I was born, a place that I needed to leave behind to carve out my path here in the city. In that sense, the work became an act of holding space for memory, displacement, and resilience.

Your sculptures are ephemeral — they last only a few days and are then transformed again.

Why did you choose this cycle? Is it a metaphor?

Let’s start by saying that not all of my sculptures are ephemeral, but in my art installations I like to embrace the idea of an ending, sometimes that ending its not determined by me, but by time itself, leaving the installation on the space to be consumed by the nature and time, as you can see in my work “EyeSight” (2023). It began with a gathering of metal scraps found in the wild in Proença-a-Nova, which I connected with the surrounding trees next to a river, to create an eye visible from many angles, that sees and feels everything, connecting the viewer’s vision with the eye that normally we don’t think in nature.

In this specific work, I adopt that cycle of ending due to the meaning behind the seashell as a symbol of home, a home built around the waste that we, as a society, leave behind like a footprint. This seashell fades with time and the tide, like so many other homes that we must leave behind to move forward but what do we really leave behind?

How do you define “upcycling”? Is it an artistic gesture, an environmental act, or something else entirely?

Upcycling is a human gesture, is the art of transformation and that can seem an environmental act, but recycling is also that but different from recycling, which breaks down materials, upcycling elevates them, giving them new life, new meaning, new form to what was once considered waste.

You also work with metal and even pieces of old flooring.

There’s a kind of archaeology in your practice — giving voice to abandoned things. Would you agree?

Working with reuse materials like metal or old flooring inherently involves a dialogue with the past since these objects carry histories, signs of wear, traces of human interaction or even neglect, and by incorporating them into the art, you're not just recycling but you're listening to their stories and letting them speak again in a new context.

So yes, it’s a kind of archaeology, not in the academic sense, but in the poetic one. You’re uncovering meaning and memory that might otherwise be forgotten or overlooked.

How would you describe your creative process?Do you search for materials with a plan, or let the materials speak first?

In my artistic practice, I normally describe ideas from what I believe and from what i have lived. Each work usually begins with a theoretical concept that has been quietly forming in my mind over time, and from that, the materials tend to reveal themselves naturally. I have a more familiar connection with working metal, as I developed my working techniques with it, but when it comes to stone, each rock holds its own specific meaning and demands a certain respect when working on them.

I manly enjoy repurposing materials and returning them back to their raw matter to see what I can get out of them, from there, the rest of the work tends to reveal itself.

In your poetic text you write: “Nothing is inert and everything is consumed.”How does this idea translate into your visual work?

We are one with the nature, and we live our lives being part of a system bigger than ourselves, than mean that our timeline is a tiny brise and after this brise pass, nature will continue again and again in and endless cycle, that’s why I said that some of my installations are just like us, they have their time here and their function but after their gone, life will continue to go as normal as ever, so they become metaphors for life itself being temporary, purposeful, and part of a larger, ongoing cycle.

Shadows play a powerful role in your installations — are they an extension of the sculpture, or a work in themselves?

In my vision, the installations feels hollow without shadows because they exist together in a slow dance between light and dark, between what we keep in the dim and what we bring into the shine.

The shadows are not extensions of the work, nor even work in themselves, they are yin and yang, inseparable, one cannot exist without the other.

You also make prints. How does printmaking connect to your sculptural work and your world of transformation and reuse?

Printmaking invites you into a world of techniques that, like sculpture, take time and patience to master, a kind of devotion to the process. In both, the hand is always present, and the technique leaves a trace.

It’s not always easy to look at something ordinary, for example flooring, and immediately see its potential, but both printmaking and sculpture challenge you to do exactly that, to look deeper, to imagine what something could become, not just what it is. In that way, both practices are about transformation and giving new meaning to materials.

What kind of reactions do people have to your work? Do you aim to provoke reflection, discomfort, or just contemplation?

My work exists to provoke a reaction, regardless of the form it takes, a reaction can be as subtle as silent contemplation, but even that prompts reflection which can reshape one’s own actions. If the work causes discomfort or even disgust, that too becomes meaningful because it forces the viewer to question where that reaction come from and why it happen to him seeing that.

Let’s talk business — how do you financially survive creating art from trash? Do you sell your pieces? Take commissions?

It’s not easy to survive mainly through art, whether it's made from discarded materials or pristine ones. Selling pieces can be difficult, especially when working with unconventional media like trash materials, which some still struggle to see as valuable.

I remain open to commissions, whether it's creating something collaboratively with another artist, or producing work on their behalf, these exchanges not only help sustain my practice financially, but also open space for dialogue, experimentation, and shared creation

But in the end, survival in art often depends on flexibility, connection, and persistence, usually accompanied by a side job to support the rest.

Do you have a strategy to balance creativity and paying the bills — or are you still figuring that out?

I’m still figuring out along the way, studying and living in Lisboa can be expensive, so I needed to find other income sources, like working on the nightlife of the city as a professional bartender. Through that work, I managed to make contacts with people who organize events, and I started curating some of those events, inviting my artist friends to showcase their work as well, bringing together a community of people for a one-night-only event.

These events don’t pay the bills, but they offer an opportunity to connect with other artists and non-artists and to generate new opportunities for my artwork.

Have you received any grants, public or private support? Has that made a difference in your journey?

Not yet, up to this point, I’ve been carving my own path shaping a language through which I can express myself and, hopefully, leave a mark. I’ve relied until now on persistence and experimentation, exploring different approaches to understand what resonates most, and it’s a continuous search, driven by the desire to one day sustain a life through art.

The temporary nature of your work — does it make it harder or easier to sell?

Do people buy ideas, or do they still expect objects?

It makes it more difficult to sell the works, but with the current contemporary art market, we see that recognition often tends more toward the concept than the actual materialization of the work. This, in my view, reflects a cultural condition in which short-lived trends and intellectualized speeches are frequently prioritized over craftsmanship process, and the physical presence of the piece.

It points to a society that consumes ideas faster than it contemplates objects, reducing the artist’s labour to a secondary role beneath the narrative attached to it.

Have you thought about offering workshops or hands-on experiences as another way to share your process (and earn a bit)?

We live in a world full of creative offers, and many of my colleagues turn to art teaching for children, to earn some income for a season. I’ve considered a lot of possibilities, but without a stable starting point or access to a dedicated space to that, it can be difficult to organize something meaningful that can attract a strong audience. I believe in the value of sharing my process, but I also want to do it in a way that feels intentional and aligned with my practice, not just for the sake of making some cash.

Social media, craft fairs, collaborations — what actually works when it comes to visibility (and income)?

When it comes to visibility, I find that collaborations hold the most power, they can create a space where practices and techniques meet, where ideas intersect, and where something unexpected can emerge.

Sharing your work alongside another artist can open new ways of seeing, both of your own work and the world around you. These exchanges can be cashless, but rich in meaning, and they may not always offer immediate income, but they nourish the artistic practice, expand the network, and sometimes lead to paths you wouldn’t have found alone, and in that sense, collaboration becomes both a gesture of generosity and a form of growth.

And finally — what advice would you give to another artist or maker who wants to live from their art, without becoming an influencer or losing their soul?

Never stop learning and never stop trying to live from what makes your soul full, because while fame and fortune may move mountains, there is a deeper kind of fulfilment in knowing your art has moved a thought, touched a feeling, or lit a spark in someone else’s world.

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