"Maria" – Jorge da Cruz & Carolin Schmidt
Video Installation
Maria is known not only from the New Testament but also from the Quran, where she appears as the mother of Jesus of Nazareth. She embodies the archetypal maternal figure—purity, compassion, and selfless love. In Catholic tradition, she is venerated as a saint. Yet it is only through the crucifixion of her son that she becomes truly human: a grieving mother, shedding tears of profound loss.
In this video performance, Maria seems to follow a different logic. Her suffering doesn’t arise from a specific event—it is chosen, summoned, challenged. She sits on a wooden table in a dim cellar. Above her, thick pipes stretch across the ceiling, drawing the eye toward a closed concrete door, like a corridor that leads nowhere.
Maria begins to peel an onion, layer by layer. Her gaze is fixed. Her movements are slow, deliberate. Each translucent layer is placed gently in a single pile. Her expression is vacant, almost meditative. The absurd stillness of the act is punctuated by a dog that occasionally wanders into the frame, curious, jumping up to observe her ritual.
She continues, driven by a singular goal: to reach the core of the onion. This center is symbolic—a pure, indivisible object that resists further reduction. It also carries a subtle eroticism, evoking both the vulnerability and power of the female form.
Each lifted layer signifies a shedding of masks, a quiet surrender of resistance. She seems to invite the tears. But none come.
A cut interrupts the sequence. She begins again, now with fresh resolve. Still, no tears. Another cut. This time, she tries with half an onion. A fly hovers over the growing pile of onion skins—a symbol of decay, of inevitable rot. When her efforts again fail to produce tears, she starts to intervene. She runs her fingers along her cheeks, gently coaxing the sensation of weeping. Nothing.
Eventually, she rubs a piece of onion beneath her eyes. No reaction. In a final attempt, she presses it harder, directly onto the skin. Her eyes redden. She blinks. The tension breaks. Tears begin to fall. Mucus slips from her nose. The pile is complete. The final layers are added.
She gathers the peeled pieces into her hands. The core drops. The act is over. The struggle has been witnessed.
“Words create thoughts, which cause more questions,
which lead to even more questions—
which put things, and ourselves, into perspective.”
— Carolin Schmidt
About the Artists