Porto in Rain or Shine
Porto is a city of contrasts—sun one minute, pouring rain the next. The rain runs down narrow stone alleys, making the steep streets slick. Walking here is up and down trodden stone, along tiled walls. But the city is just the right size to wander.
A Workshop Among Women
This retreat, Tender Little Things, wouldn’t have happened without three remarkable women: Alex Castro-Ferreira, Marina Grebenikova, and Orly Avineri.
We stayed at Menina Colina, a grand old townhouse with high marble staircases and à la carte breakfasts that felt like morning rituals. The workshop took place in a room usually used for Fado concerts; its walls lined with historical portraits of composers. It was difficult to get messy in there!
Orly Avineri—whose work I had followed for years—was the reason I came. Working with her felt like a dream made real. She is wise, intuitive, and so generous! She held the space for each one of us.
Alex, the heart of this retreat, grounded and radiant like an earth-mother goddess, carried us all, even through the difficult days. Marina, warm and exuberant, handled everything from the hotel to the dinner reservations, from airport taxis to unexpected detours—with joy and ease.
And then there were the women. From Canada, the U.S., Ireland, France, Australia—and me. My tribe. I felt safe, seen, and gently held. Time with them was nourishment, not just for the artist in me, but for the whole self. And yes, the food helped, too. (I tried oysters for the first time! I had three.)
Stitching the Past
Four full days of workshop. We turned old cereal boxes into book covers—mine came from my son’s frozen pizza packaging. We repurposed old books, scraps, and fragments. We wove, embroidered, stitched. Not to make something new from the old, but something meaningful. We looked for something hidden in the texture of the materials.
It reminded me of my grandmother in Berlin. She was a Putzmacherin—a milliner’s decorator, creating elaborate hat ornaments from fabric flowers, ribbons, feathers. A profession that barely exists anymore. She was incredibly talented. After the war, she sewed herself an ice-skating costume from an old curtain. It was so beautiful that everyone turned to look. She was tiny, so the fabric was just enough.
She made dress-up skirts for me. I still have a necklace of tiny blue beads she passed on. I remember a smocked white blouse with puffed sleeves and covered buttons. A pincushion that was the skirt of an old porcelain doll made from satin. I carry those fragments with me.
I’m usually too impatient for sewing. But here, in a circle of women, stitching (mostly uteri, naturally), I stayed with it longer than I ever have. There was something steadying about it.
Tender Little Things
We cut, glued, layered, patched. Built one large collage, only to slice it apart into little pieces—and sew it back together into something else entirely. I ended up with two small books. The hands did their work. The mind was quiet.
There was freedom in not evaluating. In not getting attached. In trusting the process—which sounds cliché until you actually try it. Orly prompted us to let our hands do what they wanted to.
Sticky fingers. Waxed thread. A stitch at a time.
There was relief in moving from the big chaotic canvas to the small tender pages. Handling those little leaves of paper, surrounded by the group.
My overarching theme? Creating space for words and quotes. I might keep working on that.
What I Brought Home
Last year, I joined another retreat in Lisbon—also with Alex, Marina, and Orly. That time, I made two new friends who returned for this one too. I didn’t write about it back then because it felt separate from my work as a surface designer.
This retreat was no different in that regard. And yet—I soaked in so much beauty, history, and culture that it will inevitably seep into my creative work. I’ve already begun a series called Azulejos do Porto, inspired by the city’s tiles. I’ll share those in a future post.
Because everything that helps me grow as an artist eventually finds its way into what I make.
