Plans to Build a Boat
The idea for this piece started with a chance find at a flea market in Berlin. I came across this small, handmade photo album from 1937—nothing flashy, just something someone had clearly taken care to put together. Inside were photos of a family spending weekends by a lake. They were simple, quiet moments—full of ease, joy, and connection. I didn’t know anything about the people in the pictures, but something about the mood of those images really hit me.
At the time, my own life in Berlin looked very different—intense, fast, a little chaotic. I was deep in a kind of Dionysian, isolating way of living, and seeing those photographs felt like staring into another reality altogether. That contrast—between the raw, restless energy I was living in and the calm steadiness of the people in those images—sparked a question in me:
If I had to build a boat with no experience, no plan—just the desire to leave—what would that look like?
That question became the seed for Plans to Build a Boat. It’s not really about a boat in the literal sense. It’s about imagining what it takes to step away from one version of life and move toward another—about gathering the pieces, even without certainty, and beginning to shape a path forward.
The work is still in progress, unfolding slowly as I continue to sit with that question and what it means to build something out of longing, memory, and the need for change.
Jorge
Notes for Resonance of Ruin
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Deconstructing Babel through Charcoal is a quiet reflection on the myth of the Tower of Babel—on ambition, collapse, and the way its story still speaks to the present. Jorge Da Cruz draws from the visual world of Pieter Brueghel the Elder, reimagining that iconic structure through a contemporary lens. With charcoal as his medium, he creates a space where history and now sit side by side.
At the center of the series is the tower—fragile, layered, and built from a mix of styles and times. It looks as if it’s been rebuilt again and again. Each level carries signs of effort and exhaustion, as though every reach toward the sky carries the weight of earlier attempts. The drawing is intricate but never showy, dense with marks that speak to the slow, determined labor behind human ambition.
Charcoal isn’t just the material—it’s part of the message. Its textures shape both the atmosphere and the structure itself. The tower has a softness to it, almost unstable, while darker areas hold it down, giving it weight. Below, water spreads quietly, and small boats drift through it—like pieces of what’s been left behind. They might be fragments of survival, or quiet gestures of retreat.
But this isn’t about destruction. It’s about what holds on. The work looks at the rhythm of building and undoing—how histories, both personal and collective, pile up in layers. It asks us to sit with the limits of our intentions, and to consider how fragile any shared meaning can be.
Resonance of Ruin doesn’t try to retell the myth. It steps inside it. There’s no neat conclusion—just a space to reflect. On failure. On repetition. And on the human urge to keep making, shaping, reaching—especially in the shadow of what we’ve already lost.
Drawing Notes from the Far Side of the Moon
Though Earth and the Moon are in constant motion—rotating and orbiting in a cosmic rhythm—there is a persistent mystery that continues to fascinate: we never see the far side of the Moon from Earth. This phenomenon, often referred to poetically as the “dark side” of the Moon (though it receives as much sunlight as the near side), is not the result of shadow or secrecy, but of a unique orbital condition known as synchronous rotation or tidal locking. The Moon rotates on its own axis at precisely the same rate that it orbits Earth—about once every 27.3 days. This synchronized rotation means that the same hemisphere of the Moon always faces Earth, while the opposite hemisphere remains hidden from direct view. This alignment isn’t coincidental; it’s the result of gravitational forces that, over millions of years, slowed the Moon's rotation to match its orbit. The Earth’s gravitational pull created tidal bulges on the Moon, and the friction from these bulges gradually altered its spin until it settled into this locked, harmonious state.
Despite this locking, the Moon does not appear absolutely still from our perspective. Because of a slight wobble known as libration, we can actually glimpse up to 59% of the lunar surface over time—but never the full 100%. The remaining unseen region—the far side—was entirely unknown until 1959, when the Soviet spacecraft Luna 3 transmitted the first grainy images of this hidden terrain. What it revealed was striking: unlike the familiar face of the Moon, marked by large, dark plains known as maria (from the Latin word mare, meaning “sea”), the far side is rugged, mountainous, and heavily cratered. It is geologically distinct, less touched by ancient volcanic flows, and far more enigmatic.
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Lithuanian magazine Nemunas (Issue 2023/04) Drawings by JorgedaCruz
LANDSCAPE: UNKNOWN, CONTEMPLATIVE, FULL OF MOVEMENT
Bernard Lassus – LANDSCAPE
The word "landscape" seems to refer to something always distant, viewed from a traveler’s perspective—always remote, barely accessible. But it’s also mysterious. Sometimes it’s a place one can approach, reach, and even physically touch—a stone path or a cherry tree reached by a ladder. As I deconstructed the landscape, I discovered not a single place but a sequence of places; the landscape disintegrated into a multitude of fragments, objects with hidden meanings that had to be studied. Each was as peculiar as the bark of a birch tree, a red tile roof, a river, or a cloud. But if the "depicted" landscape is not reliable, it separates from the "real" one and becomes a whole, an impeccable representation—an image constructed from a group of visible object fragments that were once part of it. We can try to include every imaginable object: a camouflaged soldier, a tiger blending into savanna grass, or even a hunter merging with the Alpine terrain. Landscape is then sensed not as a static "container" of objects but as a momentary whole—a sensory event where fragments of sound, scent, and sight collide with one’s inner being to form a temporary, subjective “truth.”
Translation editor: Dr. Eglė Bazaraite
Instant_Dystopian is an attempt to understand where I am.
I’ve always been fascinated by instant cameras—maybe because I grew up with Kodak film, with its soft textures and the strange joy of not knowing exactly what the photograph would reveal. The waiting, the surprise, the occasional disappointment. Sometimes the images came out completely frozen or unreadable. Other times, they produced small photographic pearls—moments of unexpected beauty that seemed impossible to repeat. I was drawn to that unpredictability, to the randomness of catching a moment without full control. It felt more like witnessing than capturing.
That fascination stayed with me. Over time, even as I developed a practice centered on drawing—especially in charcoal—that desire to embrace uncertainty never left. When I returned to photography through instant cameras, I wasn’t looking for technical precision or perfect composition. I was looking for a way to reconnect with that intuitive gaze, the one that doesn’t plan but reacts. The process became immediate, physical, even childlike—less about taking a photo and more about letting one happen.
Shooting this way became essential, especially as I found myself moving through unfamiliar places, living far from home. These photographs help me orient myself. They act as markers, as tools to read the emotional and physical landscapes I pass through. Each image is a reaction—a raw and impulsive note in a longer process of seeing. They also bleed back into my drawing practice, not just as references, but as emotional starting points. The textures, the atmosphere, the imperfections—all of it informs how I build a drawing.
That’s how Instant_Dystopian was born. It’s not a formal project in the traditional sense, but more of a visual diary—a fragmented and urgent attempt to trace the geography around me. It’s not about producing beautiful or technically impressive images. It’s about being present, about responding to a place with honesty and curiosity. Each photo is part of an inner dialogue, shaped by the tension between the desire to understand and the feeling of being perpetually out of place.
Maybe this series is the spine of what I do. It holds together the different pieces of me—as an artist, and as a person trying to make sense of what it means to live away from home. Through the fragile, imperfect lens of instant photography, I’m not looking for answers. I’m just trying to stay connected—to place, to time, to something real.
You can find the full collection of these images on Instagram at @instant_dystopian, where I share the ongoing journey in its totality.
Jorge da Cruz
Em destaque
My Integration Documents: A Poetic Geography of Memory, 2010
In a city shaped by its latitude and mood, Jorge Da Cruz has found a terrain that mirrors the layered qualities of his work. Berlin—its stark winters, clouded skies, and ephemeral light—forms the atmospheric backdrop to “My Integration Documents”: A Poetic Geography of Memory, 2017, a project that moves between autobiography, political reflection, and visual poetry.
Da Cruz arrived in Berlin during one of those dark, heavy seasons, when sunlight rarely breaks through the dense cover of clouds. He had come from Lisbon, departing from the Lisbon harbor. But rather than resist the gloom of his new surroundings, he absorbed it. The city’s quiet greyness, its slow rhythm, and its fragmented transitions between seasons became central to his artistic language.
Integration Documents was created primarily through photography, using a Lomo, a Diana++, and several instant cameras. These tools, with their distinctive textures and imperfections, echo the project’s themes of memory, impermanence, and emotional geography. Berlin’s climate, with its sharp shifts and subdued light, doesn’t merely frame the work—it shapes it.
Decomposition Documents begins with a personal memory: a photograph taken in front of a gelateria in Barcelona, where the first ideas for the project began to form. This was Da Cruz’s first holiday after moving to Berlin—a moment of pause that allowed him to look back on his early days in a new country. The image, like many in the series, is casual, imperfect, and full of presence. Shot with a low-cost DIANA+ plastic camera, the photographs carry a soft distortion—grainy, tender, and unscripted. They capture seconds, not scenes.
What emerges is a visual essay on memory—its fragility, its interruptions, its permanence. The photographs and drawings in the series do not illustrate; they evoke. They function as visual footnotes to a broader narrative about migration, belonging, and the slow accumulation of personal and political weight.
In recent years, Da Cruz’s reflections have become increasingly shaped by the social and ideological tensions of our time. As far-right movements gain momentum across Europe, the emotional and psychological dimensions of integration—already complex—take on new layers. “
My Integration Documents” is not a direct political statement, but it carries within it the silent pressure of these realities. It suggests that memory and place are never neutral—that even the smallest moment is shaped by the world around it. This work also includes 20 paper works—objects that merge image and text, fragment and thought. They do not seek to explain but to accompany. Loosely structured, they resist narrative closure. Each piece feels like a private note made public, inviting the viewer to sit with uncertainty, with longing, with things unfinished.
At its core, “My Integration Documents” is not only about Berlin, nor solely about Da Cruz’s personal story. It is about the spaces between—between countries, languages, moods, and selves. It is a portrait of movement and stillness, of what we remember, and of what refuses to fade.
Berna Valada, Lisbon 2017
Seeing Through the Charcoal: On the Work of Jorge da Cruz-Jule Graf
Framing the picture—framing the view. In Jorge da Cruz’s charcoal drawings, this idea becomes more than just a visual device. His work invites us to reflect on how we perceive the world—not just through our eyes, but through memory, emotion, and the quiet architecture of our inner life.
The scenes he creates often feel suspended in time—neither fully here nor fully gone. Figures, spaces, and thresholds emerge through layers of shadow and light, always slightly out of reach. The charcoal medium, with its soft textures and deep blacks, allows for ambiguity. Edges blur. Surfaces breathe. Absence becomes as present as what’s depicted.
Da Cruz doesn’t try to show us everything. His images are intentionally limited, pared down, framed by silence as much as by form. There’s a sense of distance—not a physical one, but an emotional or psychological space. These drawings feel like memories resurfacing, or feelings we can almost name.
Rather than leading us toward a specific narrative, his work opens up a space for pause. For looking slowly. For noticing what’s just beyond clarity. A doorway, a wall, a horizon line—simple elements charged with meaning. His drawings don’t tell us what to see; they ask us to pay attention to how we see.
In this way, Jorge da Cruz’s charcoal works are less about representing the visible world and more about evoking the experience of perception itself—fragile, shifting, and deeply human.
@jorgedacruzinthestudio
Sarah Zimmermann
Jorge da Cruz has spent the past decade focusing on so-called “artistic residencies” – constantly changing homes, constantly changing studios. He has lived and worked in Portugal, Brazil, Morocco, India, and Germany. Like a chameleon, he adapts to his surroundings. Even more: he blends these constantly shifting environments into his work. His paintings act as mirrors of the places and contexts in which they’re made.
Against this background, the wide and sometimes contradictory use of color, forms, and symbols in his work begins to make sense. The artist’s images shift just as he – and the places he inhabits – do. “Travelling Art” is the term Jorge da Cruz uses to describe his own practice.
After many years of movement and searching, Jorge – at least for now – seems to have arrived somewhere. Since 2011, the 39-year-old has been living in Berlin. Under the name Kollektiv Raumfähre, he shares a studio space with other artists in the legendary Kunstquartier Bethanien at Mariannenplatz.
Da Cruz values the atmosphere and the sense of community there – even though each artist mainly works on independent projects. Twice a year, Bethanien opens its doors for an open house, during which a large group exhibition is prepared in advance. In Jorge’s opinion, Berlin is a very art- and artist-friendly city – not just because it’s relatively affordable, but more importantly, because it brings together so many other creatives.
Although Jorge da Cruz is an artist through and through, there is something linear and technical in his art. Fascinated by architecture and technical drawings – where every little centimeter is accounted for – he begins every work with a precise, structured sketch.
His art brings together two worlds: the accuracy and discipline of technical drawing and the freedom and unpredictability of artistic expression. To share his work, da Cruz often pursues new and unconventional approaches. One of these is “Art by Mail.”
As an alternative to traditional gallery exhibitions, he occasionally sends out his work by post: art prints in postcard format. He includes a short explanatory text and background on the piece. The recipient can then choose to keep it, forward it, or even purchase the original drawing.
Jorge da Cruz also maintains a strong connection to his hometown, Lisbon. There, too, he’s created a small but unique art project: when he’s not in town himself, he sublets his apartment to culturally curious visitors who can explore the city through the artist’s own suggestions and recommendations.
Interview
VIVARS.COM: Would you please briefly introduce yourself? Where do you come from, what stage are you at currently, and – metaphorically speaking – where do you want to go? Do you have a life philosophy?
JORGE DA CRUZ:
I was born in Lisbon, Portugal, and over the past years, I’ve lived and worked all over – Spain, India, Brazil, Morocco, Kassel :-). Since 2011, I’ve had a studio in Berlin. Right now, I’m in a very exciting phase in my career – a time of settling down in a city, collaborating with other artists… a very creative period indeed!
My life philosophy might be: “Discover what you love doing, what truly makes you happy, and have the courage to do it for the rest of your life.”
V: If you could describe your art in three sentences – or even just three words – what would you say?
JDC:
Physical, raw, instinctive.
V: Regarding your creative process: how do you work? Do you follow any repetitive patterns?
JDC:
Yes. Repetition and daily routines are super important to me. I always start any painting or video installation with a drawing. From there, the process evolves naturally and becomes a series of events that change the final composition.
V: What are your sources of inspiration?
JDC:
I’d rather talk about motivation than inspiration. Inspiration feels too esoteric to me. I always have the urge to paint, but I don’t always feel motivated to do it. That’s where discipline comes in. Even when I don’t feel like it, I keep going. That’s the work. I think it has more to do with commitment than inspiration.
I also love working in close collaboration with other artists – with writers, or with other visual artists like Ivo do Carmo, Frediano Bortolotti, and more recently, Carolin Schmidt. Teamwork in art is great – it can be the perfect motivation.
V: What do you consider your most important work? Which piece has special meaning to you, and why?
JDC:
I think the work I’m most attached to is a group of three paintings called Half of Leaf (3 x 80x100, oil pastel and henna on wood canvas). I created it in three different places and at different times: Lisbon in 2006, Fez in 2007, and Kassel in 2009.
Maybe it means so much to me because each piece reflects a very important phase in my life. The paintings are now exhibited in a restaurant in Berlin. If you come to Berlin, check it out – Elsenstr. 30b!
V: You chose Berlin as your base. Was that a conscious decision? How does the city and its environment influence your work?
JDC:
It happened by chance. It was a conscious decision, but not one I had planned. The environment has a huge influence on me. I lived in Kassel for two years and had a beautiful studio in the “Nordstadt,” with all the right conditions – but I simply couldn’t work there. Kassel was too clean, too orderly, too quiet.
Then I came to Berlin, and suddenly my work evolved rapidly. That showed me: I need more chaos and disorder to create. Big cities are perfect for me. So far, Berlin has been a paradise for making art. Kassel, on the other hand, is a good place to think and reflect – which I sometimes need, too. It will always be in my heart: friends, peace, and space to think.
V: As an artist, art is clearly central to your life. But do you ever need an “art time-out”?
JDC:
I don’t really take breaks from art. I live completely for it. Maybe the only thing that pulls me out of the studio is spending time with friends and family.
V: What do you think of vivars*?
JDC:
I wasn’t really surprised when I heard about vivars! I met the initiator while living in Kassel – it was through the project Dorf-Eigen-ART, where Sylvia Kernke was very active. I could already tell she would go on to realize more cultural and artistic projects.
I really like the idea of vivars. Of course, as with any online project, its success depends on the people who use it.
Kassel, 2014
Heidrun Hubenthal
Einführende Worte zur Ausstellungseröffnung Jorge da Cruz – 2012, Buchoase in Kassel
„Paradise open on Sundays or enclosure destined to have a prosperous life“
„Das Paradies hat sonntags geöffnet“ ist der Titel eines Textes von Ivo do Carmo, einem portugiesischen Philosophen, Literaten und Freund von Jorge, der noch in diesem Jahr in Portugal als Buch erscheint.
Die beiden Freunde sprachen oft über den Text, und Ivo beschreibt diesen Diskurs so:
„Über all das sprachen wir oft, Jorge und ich. Ich begab mich auf die Suche nach Worten. Er hielt Bilder fest.
Später stellten wir fest, dass in seinen Bildern meine Worte aufgehoben waren und meine Texte seine Bilder in sich trugen.
In diesem Zusammenspiel gegenseitiger Einsichten sah ich, wie das Paradies sich auf seiner künstlerischen Baustelle veränderte.
Ich beobachtete Jorge auf dieser Baustelle, wie er vermaß, zersägte, malte, zerstörte, ausprobierte und das Paradies erschuf.
Durch seine Arbeit, die hier ausgestellt ist, konnte ich meine eigene besser verstehen – und an sie glauben.
Danke.“
Jorge hat sich in seinen Bildern mit den ersten zwei Kapiteln von Ivo do Carmos Text beschäftigt.
Zitat aus dem Text von Ivo do Carmo
„Eine Gesellschaft aber, die darauf basiert, dass die Arbeit den Weg zum Seelenheil darstellt, braucht auch für das Paradies einen plausiblen Bedeutungsrahmen.
Waren einst der Himmel und die himmlischen Bilderwelten Teil der eschatologischen Semantik, sind diese Paradigmen heute machtlos gegenüber der Erlösungsmacht von Freizeitvergnügen und Tourismus.
Sie ahmen heute himmlische Verheißungen auf Erden nach.
Die Tourismusindustrie hat sich wohlklingende Worte wie „Himmel“, „Paradies“, „Traum“ oder „Wonne“ zueigen gemacht, die jedem verführerische Angebote geloben, der über entsprechend freie Zeit verfügen kann.Ob mit tropischen Stränden oder Bergen, Hotelzimmern oder Öko-Bungalows, Kreuzfahrten oder Wüstendurchquerungen, Naturparks oder Casinos – all diese Reiseprospekte appellieren an Seelenwünsche.
Und im Abglanz dieser kaleidoskopischen Bilder von Sinnlichkeit und Glück findet sich die Seele getrennt von ihrem Trugbild durch ein Ticket oder eine Postkarte.Die Analogie von Tourismus und Paradies geht weit über allegorische Affinitäten hinaus.
Das Wort Paradies kommt aus dem Persischen bzw. Avestischen pairi.daēza und bedeutet „umgrenzter Bereich“.
Stellen wir uns also eine prachtvolle Mauer um einen üppigen Garten vor, in dem anmutige Tiere durch exotische Vegetation streifen.
Wir sehen Brunnen und Seen, Statuetten und kunstvoll beschnittene Pflanzen,
und inmitten all dieses Gedeihens lustwandeln oder jagen Fürsten und Botschafter, stattliche Soldaten und illustre Reisende in ihrer Freizeit.Solch maßgebliche Paradiesvorstellungen unterscheiden sich nicht allzu sehr von heutigen Touristenressorts.
Das Ideal des Exklusiven, des Wohlbefindens und des Erlauchten sind Privilegien des Himmels auf Erden – abgestimmt auf die Seelenwünsche des Steuerzahlers.Aus all diesen Gründen repräsentiert der Tourist eine privilegierte Klasse,
denn er ist mobil, genießt die sinnlichen Freuden des Lebens,
und erkennt sich als Hauptfigur einer glücklichen Erzählung an.“
Jorge da Cruz’ Bilder stehen im Dialog mit diesem Text – und der Text ist eine Antwort auf die Bilder.
Die Ausstellung hat drei Teile
1. Das Paradies ist hier
Der Papagei als letzter Vogel des Paradieses in Beziehung zum Abendmahl – Leonardo da Vincis Abendmahl.
Die Babybilder mit Buddha und Flügeln unter dem Titel: Ein Freund erzählte mir, das Lächeln ist Gaza.
Die engelgewordenen verstorbenen Babys von Palästina.
Die Wiederkehr des Papageis im Spiegel des Meisters – Malereien, die sich mit dem Diesseits und Jenseits beschäftigen.
2. Der Druck auf alten Dokumenten: Ich liebte mein Leben dort
Eine Antwort aus dem Leben in einem sozialistischen Plattenbau.
3. Das Paradies hat sonntags geöffnet
Die Fotografien Sonnenuntergang in Jaffa, Sonnenaufgang in Tel Aviv und Der Sprung ins Wasser zeigen bereits die trügerischen Bilder touristischer Betrachtung.
Der Görlitzer Park als begrenztes Paradies
Die Zeichen der abgerissenen Häuser in Palästina an der Mauer – Einschluss und Ausschluss von Gegenwärtigem und Vergangenem.
Wie im Karussell drehen wir uns bei der Verfolgung des Paradieses im Kreis.
Um das Paradies festzuhalten, sind wir unterwegs mit Kameras und folgen den Icons – auch wenn es Ground Zero ist.
Wir schreiben Postkarten, lassen sie abstempeln und teilen unseren Liebsten mit, dass wir uns wünschen, sie wären auch hier.
Wir sind als Krieger und Kämpfer unterwegs, folgen Marken und Attraktionen.
Wir entspannen im Paradies und bewegen uns im Dreieck – als Tourist, der dem Zeichen folgt und die Attraktion sich einverleibt:
„Genießen Sie Traum-Temperaturen von 26 Grad an 365 Tagen im Jahr.
Entdecken Sie ein Stück Tropen auf 66.000 Quadratmetern mit dem größten Indoor-Regenwald der Welt,
Europas größter tropischer Sauna-Landschaft,
der Südsee mit 200 Metern Sandstrand –
und vielen Superlativen.“
Paradies ist der Ort, an dem der Traum von einer perfekten Insel in Europa wahr geworden ist.
Weitere Gedanken zum Thema Paradies
Die freie Zeit, die Muße, wird beschützt –
ob im Freizeit-Resort der Nazis „Kraft durch Freude“ im Seeküsten-Resort Prora,
oder im ummauerten Garten, der ein Innen und ein Außen hat –
und man sich fragt: Was ist die bessere Seite zum Leben?
So wie Adam und Eva, die in den Transparent-Zeichnungen aus dem Paradies geworfen werden,
weil sie den Regeln nicht gefolgt sind.
Und unsere postmodernen Paradiesversprechungen –
im Shoppingcenter oder in Ländern,
in denen wir als Touristen willkommen sind (als Geldsegenbringer),
aber als Meinungsäußerer sofort in Polizeigewahrsam genommen werden.
Unsere empfohlene Ausstattung:
Ein Handtuch,
ein Bademantel,
Sonnenbrille,
Sonnenschutzmittel,
Mut,
ein Ball,
nicht entflammbare Spielzeuge,
Taucherbrille,
Plastic Camera,
mehrere kleine Taschen – lieber als ein großes Gepäckstück.
All das, um den Traum zu verwirklichen:
eine tropische Insel mitten im Herzen Europas – 60 km von Berlin.
Inklusive: ein vorbestimmtes blühendes Leben.
Die Touristikindustrie verspricht ein schönes Wochenende in schöner Natur am Stadtrand –
eingeschlossen oder draußen, Lust oder Strafe.
Hainan Airlines wirbt mit exotischen Blumen und dem Papagei.
Der Künstler sagt:
„Bitte zeige mir ein Foto.
Bitte erzähle mir eine Lüge.
Bitte lass mich gehen.“
Auch das russische Paradies wird gezeigt – mit einem Parkplan und Neubauten.
Im christlichen Paradies erscheinen Adam und Eva im Bunker –
und zugleich im Liegestuhl zum Sonnen –
eingeschlossen oder hinausgeworfen,
mit dicker Jacke gegen die Kälte oder in ungeschützter Nacktheit.
„Und in Berlin zeigt sich dieses Haus wie ein großes Boot,
ein Kreuzfahrtschiff voll mit fremden Menschen,
die mehr wie Piraten sind in einem Land, wo alles funktioniert,
wo die Zeit angehalten ist,
und die einzige Bewegung die ist, von Boot zu Boot zu kommen.
Ein Land, wo Liebe abwesend ist,
wo das Lächeln keine Zähne hat
und das Abenteuer verloren gegangen ist in den Gängen der U-Bahn-Linie 1.“
Auch hier sind die Menschen auf der Suche nach dem Paradies.
Wir alle sind Eingeschlossene und Ausgeschlossene zugleich.
– Heidrun Hubenthal
“Paradise Opens on Sundays”An Analysis of the Work of Jorge da Cruz
Ivo do Carmo
“And on the seventh day He rested from all His work.”
Genesis 2:2