Where the beauty is created: in Arraiolos and Carlos Noronha Feio’s studio in Lisbon

Part 1. A Trip to Arraiolos

The tiny medieval town of Arraiolos, the capital of Portuguese carpet-making, lies about 100 kilometres east of Lisbon. Since the 13th century, it has been known for an Islamic dyeing complex akin to the famed tanneries of Fez, Morocco. This heritage made Arraiolos a destination for Muslim artisans, including carpet-makers, who were forced to flee Lisbon during the persecution of Muslims in the late 15th century. By the 18th century, carpet-making had spread beyond the Muslim community, and Arraiolos carpets had become widely recognised and emblematic of the town.

Unlike woven carpets, Arraiolos pieces are embroidered by hand with wool thread on a linen or jute base. Two types of stitches are used: the so-called Arraiolos stitch—a variation of the more common oblique cross, which produces a pixel-like image structure—and a version of the stem stitch called Pé de Flor. Portuguese handmade carpets do not employ distinctive iconography or narrative. They typically feature natural motifs—flowers, stems, animals—or more abstract ornamental patterns, and occasionally human figures. The designs recall Persian, Turkish and Indian carpets, early sources for local artisans, yet they are generally lighter and more playful in style.

Sempre Noiva—the workshop with which Carlos Noronha Feio collaborates—is one of the few remaining truly authentic studios still based in Arraiolos and run by local embroiderers. In recent years, many workshops have been bought out, consolidated and relocated for convenience. “In this workshop, they were genuinely interested in supporting my strange ideas,” the artist comments with a smile. “Traditional embroidered patterns are usually based on established, well-tested templates, but my designs require completely new ones. Stitching according to radically different, unfamiliar patterns is a labour-intensive process, but for the owners of this studio, it’s important to keep the craft alive and evolving, rather than just sticking to the tradition.”

Although Arraiolos carpets are recognised as national heritage, featured in major Portuguese museum collections such as the National Museum of Ancient Art, the craft is in decline, largely because there are ever fewer skilled artisans. A handful of initiatives, including artist residencies, seek to foster collaboration between traditional carpet-makers and contemporary practitioners, but such dialogues remain limited. Within this context, Noronha Feio’s partnership with Sempre Noiva stands out as a rare and significant example.

Noronha Feio’s inquiry into carpets as a medium began with his research into Afghan “war rugs,” whose ornamentation includes images of weapons and other symbols of recent conflicts. In his body of work, the artist reflects on the role of craft traditions in human history and identity construction today.

His latest exhibition, Milk and Honey at Lisbon’s 3+1 Arte Contemporânea, focused on the poppy—a fragile plant with a complex reputation. The poppy is entwined with major historical and artistic movements of the late 19th century: the Opium Wars, Orientalist aesthetics, and the Arts and Crafts movement. It also symbolises sleep and oblivion, and today its cultivation is banned in many countries. The patterns on the two largest works in the project—both Arraiolos carpets—hardly resemble a peaceful flower field. Instead, they appear as embroidered posters, carrying encoded yet unmistakably unsettling messages.

When I ask Carlos whether audiences respond differently to his carpets compared to his paintings, he accepts that it is harder to navigate the market with textile work, but focuses on its strengths:

“Because of the tactile nature of wool and the bodily rhythm of stitching, carpets feel much ‘warmer’ as a medium than, say, painting. I often notice that they create a more intimate connection with viewers and collectors. We’re used to seeing carpets on the floor or walls—they’re part of a safe, domestic space. And I’m absolutely fine with someone placing my carpet on the floor at home, letting it become part of everyday life. In fact, when an artwork speaks to people through a familiar setting, it can resonate on a deeper level.”

We continued the conversation about the medium—and about Noronha Feio’s wider practice—back in his studio.

Part 2. In Carlos Noronha Feio’s Studio

COULD YOU TELL ME ABOUT YOUR STUDIO SPACE?

Well, it’s located in Odivelas, on the outer edge of Lisbon, which isn’t commonly viewed as the most picturesque part of the city. But the area has its charm, rooted in functional residential developments of the 1960s and ’70s, and it’s possible to get a really large space here.

That’s important to me—I need a spacious studio because I prefer to keep my unfinished pieces around while I work. Some works might stay up for years without being touched until I realise I’m ready for the final gesture that completes them.

HOW DID YOU DEVELOP THIS APPROACH?

I don’t believe an artist should always be coherent—able to plan the final result and outline the creative process from the start. That’s often what the market expects, but for me, constantly pandering to the market prevents growth.

Over time, I’ve learned how to pace myself and let go of the rush to finish. My approach is mostly research-based—I travel a lot, collect personal and shared experiences, and these become small triggers that guide the work. I also collect objects that feel meaningful—even if I can’t explain their significance at first, years later, they find their way into my practice.

THAT’S HOW YOUR PIECE FOR THE FABRIC OF FELICITY EXHIBITION AT GARAGE MUSEUM CAME ABOUT, RIGHT? WORKING ON THAT EXHIBITION WAS ALSO WHEN WE FIRST MET.

Yes. The core of that installation — The Growing Museum: Assemblage I (Version III) — was a boy’s Japanese kimono from my collection made from propaganda textile. The pattern possibly references the Battle of Khalkhin Gol (1939) between Japan and the Soviet Union. Such kimonos were quite popular between the First and Second World Wars. I combined the kimono with a 1920s-30s British Art Nouveau nurse’s belt and a Yoruba lost-wax bronze ring-coin. Each object carries a rich story and strong symbolic resonance, and I was interested in the narratives that emerged from that juxtaposition.

YOU TRAVEL A LOT—YOU’VE WORKED IN CAPE VERDE AND RECENTLY RETURNED FROM A RESIDENCY IN THE NETHERLANDS. HOW DO YOU MAINTAIN YOUR PRACTICE WHEN YOU’RE AWAY FROM THE STUDIO? IS IT DIFFICULT?

If anything, travel has a very positive effect. I’m interested in how histories are constructed and what identity means today, and travel allows me to work in that space.

For me, identity is personal, shaped by individual experience rather than inheritance. It’s not about traits assigned to you—skin colour, eye colour—or things imposed from above, like a passport. I think movement should be encouraged, not discouraged. The more people are allowed to absorb, experience and engage with what we call “the Other,” the less problematic human relationships become. And not just inter-human relationships but inter-species ones too—your relationship with the planet shifts once you understand that everything is a construct and that it all rests on immediate knowledge and experience. If you spend years deeply engaging with a culture different from the one you were born into, why shouldn’t that become part of who you are?

I relate to Édouard Glissant’s idea of identity compared to an archipelago: something fluid, formed through exchanges between distinct yet interconnected parts. I explored these ideas in a collective project (arkipélg!) in Cape Verde.

HOW DO YOU BEGIN BUILDING RELATIONSHIPS WITH A PLACE? THROUGH PEOPLE, FIELDWORK, OR MEANINGFUL OBJECTS?

It’s a combination: building relationships, noticing what’s different from what I’m used to, observing how people live, what they value, and the materials they use. But it’s vital to understand that you can’t absorb things immediately—these processes take time and consideration. I always emphasise my personal perspective on what I learn and try to communicate it clearly in my work.

For example, in Cape Verde, alongside a large text-based public artwork I made for (arkipélg!), I started making small, playful paintings on tin from tuna cans. That was part of my adaptation to the local context. Craftsmen taught me how to work the tin—how to bend it and create forms. There is a long-standing local tradition of using tin for both functional and decorative objects.

Some of those tin pieces resemble small painted canvases. One clearly shows a volcano—a reference to the famous volcano on Fogo Island in Cape Verde, where part of my family is from—so it became a reflection on cultural identity, using a material with a golden finish that is at the same time anything but precious.

I also learned how to make a flower mould from tin—six petals with a hole in the centre. I used that in a project titled Dew Point. The idea was to place these metal flowers in dry landscapes, hoping dew might form from the temperature difference between the top and bottom of the leaf, as happens with real flowers, and thus create a more fertile environment. I left one such tin flower on São Vicente Island.

WE’VE JUST RETURNED FROM ARRAIOLOS, AND REFLECTING ON THAT TRIP, I FEEL YOU HAVE A REAL APPRECIATION FOR CRAFTSMANSHIP.

Absolutely. To me, craft is very close to fine art. It’s a bit of a Japanese way of looking at things—why shouldn’t a person who spends a lifetime carving wooden spoons have their practice considered fine art? Every object they make is unique, imbued with care. That dedicated, performative repetition—perfecting something inherently imperfect—becomes a form of art in itself for me.

And craft can take many forms. I have a series of pieces with neon tubes: extended paintings and sculptures. The sculptures require bending neon tubes in several directions, which is incredibly difficult. I always work with the same craftsman, who’s kind enough to go the extra mile and make these complex elements for me. We share a genuine empathy born of close collaboration; it’s nothing like a customer-subcontractor relationship.

YOU’VE WORKED EXTENSIVELY WITH FOUCAULT’S CONCEPT OF THE DISPOSITIF—HOW INSTITUTIONS, NORMS AND DISCOURSES SHAPE BEHAVIOUR AND SOCIAL REALITIES, PARTICULARLY REGARDING IMAGES. I THINK I SEE HERE A FAMILIAR BOOK THAT INFORMED ONE OF THOSE PROJECTS?

Yes, a series of paintings emerged from this little book, The Native People of the Pacific World. I like the double meaning in the title—“Pacific” can mean something peaceful as well as the ocean, yet the Pacific as a territory is far from peaceful.

The book was produced for American soldiers during World War II to teach them about the “locals” in the Pacific. It’s full of striking images, but they offer a stereotypical, exoticised view of these cultures, obscuring the deeper, more complex histories beneath. Working with the book, I found myself drawn in by the images—it was hard to keep a critical distance—so I began experimenting with what I call a “language of lines” layered over the images, creating something instinctive and visually engaging that doesn’t merely follow the original picture. The resulting distortion opens the work to different interpretations.

DO YOU OFTEN HAVE VISITORS IN THE STUDIO? DO YOU SEE IT AS A SOCIAL SPACE?

Occasionally, friends drop by, but I don’t invite people often—not because I don’t enjoy it, but because I try not to impose. If someone’s curious, they’ll reach out. I do the same with others, though sometimes I hold back even then—that’s just how I am.

I’m open to how people interpret my work. When I create, it comes from my research, practice and personal experience, but once a work is public, it can acquire meanings I never intended. People bring their own perspectives, and I value that, even if I don’t agree. Even without outside input, I often revisit my work as a viewer and see something new.

AND WHAT ABOUT CREATIVE BLOCKS—DO YOU EXPERIENCE THEM? HOW DO YOU MOVE THROUGH THAT?

Blocks for me personally often stem from doing too little—a kind of apathy. I usually get what I call post-show depression, when the adrenaline drops after a production rush, but it passes.

When I’m stuck, I try to relax: I read, watch things. I also do a lot of auction research—I collect objects, art, books, LPs. That process always feeds something. Everything around us is part of the same ecosystem, which is usually what unlocks the next step for me.