Born in Lisbon and currently based in Oakville, Ontario, Paulo Caravalho is a narrative-driven photographer whose work explores memory, geometry, and the emotional dissonance between what is seen and what is felt. His visual language—primarily expressed in timeless black and white—fuses cinematic composition with poetic minimalism, evoking stories that are often left untold.

Paulo began photographing at the age of eight under the gentle mentorship of his father, using a Pentax Spotmatic that now appears as a symbolic artifact in a series of tribute portraits. This early experience laid the foundation for a practice rooted in emotional truth and formal experimentation. His artistic identity is split between six photographic heteronyms, each representing a unique gaze or conceptual voice, though always absent are the "four fictional religious friends" from which his moniker, the10minus4, derives—a quiet nod to the presence of absence that defines much of his work.

His influences range from Frank Horvat, who brought fashion photography into the streets, to Cezanne’s obsessive study of form. Paulo’s photographs often resemble unscripted films—dreamlike, fragmented, and reflective—where narrative is hinted at, but never explained. He believes that photography is always a narrative, but rarely the one the viewer thinks they’re reading.

When he’s not searching for new perspectives or confusing Spotify with his simultaneous love for Frank Sinatra and Kim Petras, Paulo is capturing emotional architecture, forgotten places, and portraits that feel like borrowed memories.

ARTIST’S STATEMENT

I work in black and white because time has no color.

My practice is split across six photographic alter egos—each with a distinct gaze, yet all tracing the same question: What remains after memory fades? The “minus four” refers to fictional religious companions who exist only in absence—ghosts of meaning, never pictured, always implied.

My work is not documentary, but neither is it fiction. I am drawn to the quiet tension between form and feeling—between the precision of geometry and the chaos of emotion. Whether in the curve of an elbow or the shadow of a forgotten building, I look for the invisible story, the one no one tells but everyone somehow recognizes.

I began photographing at eight years old, guided by my father and a Pentax Spotmatic that now appears as a recurring character in my work. That camera is more than a tool; it is a vessel for grief, memory, and the unfinished dialogue between father and son. Many of my portraits are in fact conversations—attempts to reach the people I’ve lost, or never quite understood.

Influenced by the cinematic minimalism of Frank Horvat and the obsessive simplicity of Cézanne, I believe every photograph is a fragment of a script we’ll never finish. My frames are constructed like poems: rhythm first, meaning later. I want viewers to feel like they’ve walked into a movie where they don’t know the language—but the silence says everything.

I do not seek clarity. I seek resonance. The emotional echo. The part of the apple I can understand.