Padre António Vieira was a portuguese priest who participated
in colonial missions to Brazil. He is best known for his literary works
and is usually framed as a progressive figure for defending the Brazillian indigenous people.
His humanitarian character is, however, usually uncritically examined, as his way of defending the indigenous was through evangelization (a form of colonial violence itself) and this defense came at the cost of an increasing enslavement of African people.
A statue was raised in his honour in 2017 which depicts him with three indian children at this feet, as he holds the cross up in the air. The following page questions the visual politics that surround the choice of this model of representation and how it can be contested through equally legitimate visual means.
PADRE ANTÓNIO VIEIRA
Padre António Vieira was a Portuguese priest, preacher, and writer. He was a Jesuit — a member of Societas Iesu (eng: Society of Jesus; pt: Companhia de Jesus), a religious order founded in 1520 which was engaged in the evangelization of 112 nations. He was born in 1608 and went to Brazil (Portuguese colony since 1500) when he was 6 years old, where he ended up spending most of his life as a missionary. António Vieira could be considered a progressive figure for his time, given that he became known for fighting for the rights of the indigenous peoples, for the end of their enslavement and also for the end of the distinction between New Christians (Jews converted to Christianity) and Old Christians. 1
He is considered one of the literary greats of the Portuguese-speaking world, much due to his many sermons which he preached throughout his life to various audiences, both in Brazil and in Portugal. In 1641, after Portugal reclaimed its independence from 60 years long Spanish rule, Padre António Vieira returned to Lisbon. There, he earned the trust of the king, D. João IV, who was impressed by the rhetoric of his sermons. He started working as his counsellor and was later sent to The Netherlands to resolve political upheaval between the two countries. In Amsterdam, his sympathy towards Portuguese New Cristian refugees led to tensions between him and the Holy Inquisition.
One of Padre António Vieira’s most known works, Sermon of Saint Anthony to the Fish is mandatory reading in high school. This sermon uses Saint Anthony’s legend where he preached to the fish as an allegorical tool to establish parallels between the qualities and flaws of men and different species of fish. The sermon was first preached in São Luís do Maranhão, Brazil, on the 13th of June 1654, in the context of the conflict between the colony’s settlers and the Jesuits, who reiterated Pope Urban VIII’s prohibition against Indian slavery. Three days after preaching it, Vieira secretly embarked to Lisbon to appeal D. João IV for laws that would guarantee basic rights to Brazilian indians, preventing them from being exploited by white colonists.
However, his defence of the Brazilian indians among the Portuguese nobility was predicated in comparing the suffering of the Indian slaves to the suffering of Christ himself, as professor Adma Fadul Muhana explains when talking about his Sermon of the Epiphany, which he preached at the church of Saint Roch: “[Padre António Vieira] frames the indigenous people as if they were the very representation of Christ and of the true Christians — those who are humiliated, those who suffer and, thus, should receive blessings and gifts from the realm.”2 This comparison is seldom problematized, even by established historians, who fail to understand how the equivalence of suffering to something divine in fact dehumanizes these brutal processes of enslavement and colonisation.
In addition to this, the evangelization of the indians and the erasure of their native religions is never recognized as an act of colonial violence towards these people. In this process of conversion, the Jesuits would often mention how the natives were fast to learn the new faith but equally fast in returning to their previous cultural and religious practices if left unattended. Padre António Vieira noted this in his Sermon of the Holy Spirit, where he compared the Brazilian indians to shrub statues, as they were easy to mould but quick to regrow into its natural shape after a while:
It is necessary for the statues to always be overwatched by its master: once, to cut off what their eyes glisten, so that they believe what they do not see; again, to restrain their ears, so that they do not listen to the fables of their ancestors; and at last, trim what their feet thrive, so that they abstain from the barbaric actions and heathenish customs. And only in this way, always working against the nature of the trunk and the mood of the roots, can the unnatural shape and composition of the branches be preserved in these rough plants. 3
This “inconstancy” (after anthropologist Eduardo Viveiros de Castro), expressed by the indigenous people and recognized by the Jesuits, was weaponized as an excuse to import African slaves given that they were seen, at the time, as more keen to work and less eager to resist. “There was a price to pay to defend the little indians, as this price was the Africans. Vieira was not an abolitionist. He was a selective abolitionist”, as journalist Alexandra Lucas Coelho writes in her chronicle My last vote in Lisbon and Vieira’s cross.4
I. The Sermon of Saint Anthony to the Fish. Portuguese highschool textbook from 2014.
Inauguration of the statue in Lisbon (June 2017)
Lucas Coelho’s chronicle is a reaction to the inauguration, in 2017, of a statue of Padre António Vieira, in a central square in Lisbon. Upon the statue’s unveiling, Fernando Medina, the aldermen of the municipality of Lisbon, commented on how it represented a long due homage to “one of the greatest Portuguese thinkers, who, until now, didn’t have the recognition he deserves.” Priest António Vaz Pinto also spoke at the inauguration: “A great day in which we repair a great injustice and pay homage to a great man.” 5
The statue was sculpted by Portuguese artist Marco Fidalgo and depicts the priest with three indigenous children by his feet, one of them kneeling, while Vieira holds the cross upwards. Right after the inauguration, the statue was criticized by many for representing Padre António Vieira in a manner that, instead of paying homage to his humanist principles, actually reinforced Portugal’s colonial past.
By displaying the imagery of a condescending, paternalistic figure, the statue crystallizes the domination of the Christian faith over the indigenous children, who are depicted as accessories, looking at him as if he was some kind of saviour or messiah. In the words of Lucas Coelho:
The problem does not reside in raising him a statue now. It resides in the raised statue itself, in what was said in the inauguration, in who endorsed it. Meanwhile, this city, ex-world capital of slavery, has not paid a single tribute to the slaughtered indians nor to the six million Africans trafficked through the Atlantic by the Portuguese empire. The cross and the little indians at Vieira’s feet are, for all that, an insult to the present and the future. (Coelho, 2017)
The inauguration happened on the 22nd of June 2017, and on the 5th of October, (a holiday which celebrates the proclamation of the Portuguese republic), the statue was subject to political action: the activist group Descolonizando was aiming to leave flowers and candles by the feet of the sculpted indigenous children, but were blocked by a far right nationalist group who wanted to “stop a subversive act that would be an attack to the legacy of Portugal.” 6 This small confrontation made it to the news but did not prompt a broader discussion on Portugal’s colonial past.
II. Statue of Padre António Vieira. Marco Fidalgo (Lisbon, 2017)
III. Far-right nationalist group blocking Descolonizando activists from protesting against the statue.
The statue is painted red
with the word ‘decolonize’ (June 2020)
Three years later, on the 11th of June of 2020 (the day after the 10th of June, Day of Camões, Portugal, and the Portuguese Communities, and on the day of Corpus Christ) in the aftermath of the worldwide Black Lives Matter protests following the death of George Floyd, the face of the priest was painted red, the word “decolonize” was written on the foot of the statue, and three red hearts were painted on the chests of the children. This action spurred a wave of heated criticism from the people, the parties (both from the right and the left wing) and even a declaration from the President, who considered it a “truly imbecile gesture against the memory of Portugal’s greatest preacher and a progressive man for his time.” 7
IV. The statue after the protest. (11th of June 2020)
this act brings up matters of representation
The main issue surrounding Padre António Vieira’s statue is not the questioning of the homage paid to his figure, but the visual means through which it was materialized. The iconographic model that the statue embodies is based upon Carlo Grandi’s 1742 engraving of the priest, displayed in André de Barros’ Vida do Apostolico Padre Antonio Vieyra, published in 1746.
This illustration would end up becoming one of the most common ways of visually representing the priest, serving as a model for another widely reproduced engraving of him by Charles Legrand in 1839. Both in these two images and in the statue inaugurated in 2017, the priest stands tall in the centre of the composition, rarely changing position throughout the various reissuings of this model.
As Ricardo Ventura notes in his volume which compiles texts written by Vieira about the indigenous peoples, Padre António Vieira: Escritos Sobre os Índios:
(...) what seems exemplary to us is that the figure of Vieira, like a monolith, remains practically unchanged, while the indians and the surrounding landscape change: that the “brazils”, anonymous figures, inhabitants of a vast and indefinite geographical area, dense jungle or river, dunes and sea, load weapons or lay them down, look at the preacher or at the sky, sail the rivers or be hidden by the dense vegetation. It could be said, therefore, that “brazils”, more or less like the background landscape, in their relative indeterminacy and anonymity, play a symbolic role, tending to be passive: they gravitate around the central axis, which is Vieira, and change according to the circumstance and the geographic space in which he worked. 8
What many failed to see was that the probable aim of the protesters was not to criticize solely the figure of Padre António Vieira but, first and foremost, the way he was publicly represented and how this representation is linked to a larger societal and cultural context — in Portugal, one of colonialism, exploitation of indigenous people and slavery. This visual trope of the indian as a passive figure decentralizes not only their bodies and stories from a colonial narrative but also centralizes Vieira as the archetypal hero, as the “good colonizer”.
Padre António Vieira’s anachronic statue is then a solidification of a story larger than himself: a narrative that glorifies Portuguese exploration and domination over other peoples. Having a statue based on a 400-years-old visual representation be erected in 2017 showcases how uncritical Portuguese society is towards its own past and towards the ways in which this past is still imbricated into present concepts of nationality, pride and unbound patriotism.
V. Engravings by Carlo Grandi (1742)
VI. Illustration by Charles Legrand (1839)
What can we do with inadequate representations
in the public realm?
VII. The 25th of April of 1974. Photo by Alfredo Cunha (1974)
Let’s analyse the very act of the painting of the statue as a form of visual political discourse being enacted in the public realm. How legitimate can this form of graphic commentary be and what are its historical precedents? What kind of potentialities can this type of discourse activate? How can it uproot political discourse away from figurative and institutional grounds and bring it closer to the people?
VIII. The Church of Saint Roch.
WHY WAS THIS INADEQUATE REPRESENTATION
CHOSEN IN 2017?
In order to reflect upon these questions, we must look back at the recent history of the country. As mentioned earlier, Portugal was subject to a 41-year-long authoritarian, autocratic, and conservative regime, named Estado Novo (eng: New State).
This dictatorship was predicated in perpetuating the imperialist narrative of Portugal as a pluri-continental nation which oversaw colonies like Angola, Mozambique, Guinea-Bissau, Cape Verde,São Tomé and Príncipe, Timor, and the State of India. While many European nations withdrew from its colonies during the 1950s and 1960s, Portugal held its overseas provinces (pt: pronvíncias ultramarinas) until 1974, when a coup, the Carnation Revolution, overthrew the regime. This revolution was a reaction of a faction of the Portuguese military to the authoritarian conditions under which the Portuguese population lived and to the thirteen-years-long Colonial War, where the regime fought against independence movements that started to rise in its adjacent territories.
At the same time that Portugal started to get closed off by other countries, sanctioned and disapproved by European powers, the Colonial War became increasingly unpopular due to its length and cost. The regime actively prosecuted left-wing and anti-war activists, having a special police force (PIDE, pt: Polícia Internacional e de Defesa do Estado, eng: International and State Defence Police) tasked with the imprisonment, torture, and censorship of opposite ideals. However, a small faction of the Portuguese Armed Forces, the MFA (pt: Movimento das Forças Armadas, eng: Armed Forces Movement) was able to organize themselves in secrecy and, on the 25 of April of 1974, they conducted a bloodless military coup against the regime, which would become known as the Carnation Revolution.
After the Revolution, Portugal went through a transitional period known as PREC (pt: Processo Revolucionário Em Curso, eng: Ongoing Revolutionary Process) — which started after a failed right-wing coup d’état on 11 March 1975, and ended after a failed left-wing coup d’état on 25 November 1975 — that was marked by tensions between left and right-wing forces. These events left Portugal on the brink of a civil war and made it a fertile ground for radicalism --Portugal, during this period, saw its streets, walls and squares turn into spaces for active political debate through visual means, namely graffiti and paintings. Poet E.M. Melo e Castro made a visual essay for a magazine in 1977 where he analysed these visual debates between the different political alleys that finally had freedom to express their views publicly. Melo e Castro wrote the following on this matter:
(...) the explosion of visualism in Portugal reveals several very important things, among which the recognition of the act of writing as an immediate consequence of a need for individual affirmation, and of that act as the departure point for the manifestation of the collective will of vast groups of human persons. Furthermore, it appears that freedom is an indispensable condition for the exercise of writing. The writing on the walls is therefore a highly revealing fact of the freedom of a people and a collective manifestation of the communicative power of their will. In Portugal, such freedom did not exist for 50 years. The energy contained under oppression suddenly exploded and the country, on the roads, in the cities, in the villages, was filled with inscriptions almost overnight. And, in a country of illiterates, there was an accelerated transition to a climate in which the reading of these inscriptions and the game of their reciprocal interventions becomes evident and active. Reading is not spelling, but yet the understanding of possible connection(s) between signs. And everything can be (and is) a sign, a mark of something. There are no innocent signs when it is time for a man to say who he is and what he wants, individually or collectively. 9
To analyse further the choice of this model of representation we must also understand the institutional, geographical, and toponymical context which envelops the work. The statue was commissioned by the Municipality of Lisbon, with the support of the Holy House of Mercy (pt: Santa Casa da Misericórdia), a centenary charity institution.
IX. Examples of post-25th of April visual debates.
The Holy House of Mercy was founded in 1498 by Queen D. Leonor of Portugal and declares itself a Catholic lay brotherhood. For many centuries, the Holy House of Mercy depended on donations from private sponsors, which would lead to financial difficulties that prompted queen D. Maria I, in 1738, to concede the institution the right to explore an annual lottery. This lottery would end up becoming its main source of income, and during the 20th century they introduced five more games. With their combined revenue, they have been able to help other beneficiary entities throughout the Portuguese territory. After the Great Lisbon earthquake in 1755, many infrastructures that belonged to the Holy House were destroyed. The church of Saint Roch (where Padre António Vieira used to preach a century before) was one of the only buildings that survived the catastrophe. Thirteen years after the earthquake, the whole infrastructure and goods of Saint Roch were given to the Holy House of Mercy of Lisbon, becoming its headquarters.
It is in the square which fronts the Holy House of Mercy of Lisbon and the church of Saint Roch that the statue of Padre António Vieira now stands. When talking about the statue, Alexandra Lucas Coelho wrote: “(...) I thought that statue had been inaugurated somewhere inside any space belonging to the Catholic Church. I didn’t even consider the hypothesis of it being in a central point of the city.” Lucas Coelho’s reaction mirrors her criticism towards how religious representations inhabit the public realm of the city without prior questioning or scrutiny. Once again, the issue does not lie in paying homage to religion-related figures in itself but in how they are represented publicly, and how these representations feed into a general uncritical attitude towards the dynamics between the state and the Catholic Faith and towards how this same faith was deeply imbricated in the brutal processes of colonisation carried out by Portugal in the past. This imbrication is very explicit when we look not only at the statue of Padre António Vieira but also at the geography around it.
Before the 1755 earthquake, monasteries, convents, hospices, and other religious houses characterized the remarkably sacred urban landscape of Lisbon. Two of the most important convents were the Convent of the Holy Trinity (pt: Convento da Santíssima Trindade), founded in 1218, and the Convent of Carmo (pt: Convento do Carmo), founded in 1389, which stood close to each other, in the centre of the city, a 5-minute walk away from the square where Padre António Vieira’s statue now stands. After the earthquake, both were almost completely destroyed. Afterwards, there were many attempts at reconstructing the structures, but none would suffice. After the constitutionalists won the Portuguese Civil War in 1836 against the absolutists, all the religious orders were extinct.
Even though the convents were extinct — and the liberal constitutionalists aimed to start separating the Crown from the Church — many streets, squares and districts were still named after them. The toponymy that surrounds Vieira’s statue is an interesting example of some of these relations. We shall investigate them to explore how religion has always been involved in embodying the public realm, and how this has served different political purposes throughout the history of Portugal.
Melo e Castro paired his writings with many visual examples of such collective manifestations. He presents us some situations: In one, the name of a right-wing party (CDS) is transfigured by a leftist who nullified its meaning by using the already existing shapes to write 008, with the intention of turning it into something nonsensical. On another, to the acronym of that same party (CDS), someone added the equals sign and a swastika. Later, someone else came and disguised the “CDS”, replacing it with the communist symbol, the hammer and the sickle. Afterwards, the communist symbol was also equalled to a swastika, which was later camouflaged as a window, while the hammer and the sickle turned into a cartoon of a man with a pipe. Other examples appeared more as annotations and edits to already existing signs of the public space, such as traffic signs (where a left and right arrows would be associated with names of political parties) or letterings marking public spaces (like a pool, “piscina”, where the “p” and the “s” would be circled so as to form the name of the Socialist Party, PS).
Mário Moura, professor of Graphic Design at the Fine-Arts Faculty of Porto, while commenting on these visual discourses as they were analysed by E.M. Melo e Castro, highlighted the ways in which the relationships between visual representations in the public space (signs, murals, graffities) and the possibility of graphically commenting upon them were predicated on freedom and liberation and not in the conservatism that he recognizes as part of the role of art within the public realm nowadays:
It is, then, curious that during the period that followed the 25th of April, censorship was considered an integral part of the language of graffiti itself. Now, graffiti has become conservative, literally conservative. When a municipality wants to control what can or cannot be written on a wall, it invites artists to fill those walls, and no one else can act upon them as that would be considered censorship. It is the urban artist as someone who immobilizes; the art as a brake which transforms everything that answers it into vandalism, like an a priori censorship. Graffiti as anti-graffiti ink. 10
This speaks about the gentrification and hygienization of graffiti, its co-optation by governmental institutions in order to monopolize public space in a covert way, therefore cancelling the possibilities of visual public debate. If even murals, which were the prime spaces for political art, nowadays deny the legitimacy of visual debate as a productive way of enacting citizenship, then it is predictable that the action which Padre António Vieira’s statue was subject to would also fail to be seen as such.
X. Toponymy of the region.
The reactions to the painted statue then showcase a particular forgetfulness of Portuguese society when it comes to its recent history: most declarations sbout the event — be them formal, institutional or popular — always frame it as an act of vandalization.
Those who try to defend it and explain it are definitely a minority. Catarina Martins, coordinator of Bloco de Esquerda (eng: Left Bloc), a left wing Portuguese party, said that “those who did it [the painting] are trying to discredit the antiracist movement, because this would always be the worst way of sparking the debate.” 11 In our opinion, this showcases two things: in one hand, a failure of the Portuguese left in recognizing the potential that these types of visual discourse carry, and, on the other hand, their acknowledgment of Portuguese society’s uncritical keenness to see these actions as violent, radical acts carried out by extremists. Other statements from the left-wing parties suggested that this act could have only been carried out by far-right groups aiming to undermine the antiracist and anticolonial debates. But, as Mário Moura says, “if it is an instigation from the far right, it not only reveals a lack of union of the left on this point but also the consensus, among the Portuguese society (including this left) that these matters are not that important.” This can be seen, then, as part of a crisis of leftist party politics in Portugal, as they fail in seeing antiracist and anticolonial struggles as part of their agenda.
Firstly, we must look into the legacy of the Convent of the Holy Trinity. Near the place where it once was, we have the Square of the Trinity (pt: Praça da Trindade), the Street of the Trinity (pt: Rua da Trindade), the New Street of the Trinity (pt: Rua Nova da Trindade) and Trinity Lane (pt: Travessa da Trindade). Most of these names have stayed the same from their nomination up until now, but some other toponymic designations were not that stable, and those better showcase the historical tensions between religion and state.
On top of the New Street of the Trinity, we find the square where the Holy House of Mercy of Lisbon has its headquarters — the square where Padre António Vieira’s statue is. Both this square and another street besides it once carried religious names referring to the church of Saint Roch: Square of Saint Roch (pt: Praça de São Roque) and Large Street of Saint Roch (pt: Rua Larga de São Roque). These designations lasted until 1913, given that after the overthrowing of the Monarchy and its replacement by the First Portuguese Republic (in 1910), there was an attempt at subduing the power that the Church exerted. This very liberal effort materialized itself, for example, in the changing of many hagiotoponyms (toponyms referring to saints) to designations that paid homage to the newly installed Republic. Thus, the Square of Saint Roch saw its name changed into Trindade Coelho Square (pt: Praça Trindade Coelho), as homage to republican writer José Francisco Trindade Coelho.
The Large Street of Saint Roch turned into Mundo Street (pt: Rua do Mundo), as an homage to republican newspaper O Mundo (eng: The World), which had its headquarters on that street. However, while Trindade Coelho Square kept the same name until the present day, Mundo Street was changed into Street of Mercy (after The Holy House of Mercy) in 1937, during Estado Novo, the dictatorship that lasted from 1933 to 1974. The politics of the dictator, António Salazar, were very much predicated in the widely preached conservative motto of Deus, Pátria e Família (eng: God, Homeland and Family). This placed religion back in the agenda of the state — an agenda that still echoes in the present and whose legacy we still witness in the collective mentality of the Portuguese society, in the over glorification of Portugal’s colonial past and in many public representations of historical figures and happenings.
The Street of Mercy kept its name until now, and the same societal mechanisms and mentalities that preserved its designation were the ones responsible for the uncritical lifting of Padre António Vieira’s statue in 2017. Fernando Medina, at the inauguration, spoke of how the Municipality of Lisbon was paying its “debt to History”, insisting that a secular state should not devalue or separate religion “as it is a collective phenomenon”. A stance like Medina’s leans towards arguments supported by nationalist, patriotic groups, which are quick to come forth in defence of historical and religious Portuguese figures. An unaware observer could then think that Medina leans more to the right wing of the Portuguese political spectrum. However, he is part of PS (pt: Partido Socialista, eng: Socialist Party), a centre-left party. This fact, along with the reactions of all the parties (both from the right and the left) to the painting of the statue in June 2020, showcase an uncritical attitude that overarches all political ideologies. This attitude is present when a statue like this is raised without an adequate scrutiny of its visual model, when the act of the painting is equally criticized by all parties and when this same act doesn’t spark any kind of meaningful, institutional debate.
Mário Moura, once again writing (through a Facebook post) about the aftermath of the painting of Padre António Vieira’s statue, brought forward the relevance of architecture as a discipline that can give productive insight into dealing with monuments. He brings forth the two distinct stances of 19th-century critic John Ruskin and architect Violet Le Duc which still inform architectural practices nowadays: when facing a ruinous monument, architects either leave it as it is or reconstruct it according to the present aesthetic discourse. These reconstructions sometimes appear as shocking to the people, combining old styles with modern ones. The shock comes from a longing for authenticity, something that the architect usually understands as impossible, given that neither the techniques nor the context when that monument was first built longer exist. Moura then establishes a parallel between the action of acting upon a statue and this architectural understanding of the restoration of monuments:
If a monument celebrates a ruin, a society which no longer exists, a feat that is no longer heroic, I don’t see why it shouldn’t be complemented or commented according to contemporary criteria. Those who paint or bring down statues which celebrate terrible things understand that. They refuse the kitsch of accepting monuments as inert facts. 12
Portuguese architect Pedro Levi Bismarck, commented the following on that post:
Everything that has been elevated to the status of a monument is destined to lose its proper historic condition: it is nothing more than a souvenir that integrates the long procession of the remains and ruins of the winners. That said, it is not the demolition of a monument that condemns us to forgetting the past, quite the contrary, it is precisely its demolition that returns the object to (its) history and that gives us back the past, the violence of the past. 13
Happenings like the painting of Vieira’s statue should be seen as a starting point for a deeper reflection on issues of representation — be it visual or verbal — and how these representations have a political impact in themselves, beyond what they represent. In breaking down the different layers that surround Padre António Vieira’s representation, we aimed to critically analyse not only his persona in itself but, most importantly, the way it was represented visually in the public realm. And all visual signs are political in themselves, be them images, sculptures, names of streets or wall graffities. Mapping out the relations between those signs, we hoped to showcase how institutions, governments and parties still hold major power in the way the common people experience the public sphere. In a country where silence and denial perpetuate century-long narratives of colonial violence, no representation is innocent: it can either reinforce or challenge it. When challenging these representations at the institutional level is not possible, and they end up being materialized into the public sphere (like in Vieira’s case), visual commentary can still prove itself as a legitimate way of questioning them. Recognizing the value that lies on these forms of graphic debate can help unblock larger public discussions on matters that have been long ignored.
1 – The New Christian social category was made to refer to and deal with Sephardic and Bene Israel Jews, and the Muslim Moors who converted whether wilfully or forcefully to Roman Catholicism. By law, the category of New Christians included not only recent converts but also all their known baptized descendants with any fraction or quantum of New Christian blood up to the third generation, the fourth generation being exempted.
2 - Muhana, A. F. (2016). O sermão do padre António Vieira no dia da Epifania. Retrieved October 21, 2020, from https://ensina.rtp.pt/artigo/o-sermao-do-padre-antonio-vieira-no-dia-da-epifania/
3 - Vieira, A. (1657). Sermão do Espírito Santo. Speech, Maranhão.
4 - Coelho, A. L. (2017, September 15). O meu último voto em Lisboa e a cruz de Vieira. Sapo. Retrieved October 21, 2020, from https://24.sapo.pt/opiniao/artigos/o-meu-ultimo-voto-em-lisboa-e-a-cruz-de-vieira
5 – Vaz Pinto, A. and Medina, F. in Estátua Padre António Vieira: Homenagem merecida a um grande homem. (2016, June 22). Retrieved October 21, 2020, from https://www.lisboa.pt/atualidade/noticias/detalhe/estatua-padre-antonio-vieira-homenagem-merecida-a-um-grande-homem
6 - Amiguinho, R. in Ernesto, A. Y. (2017, October 6). Extrema-direita impede manifestação contra estátua do padre António Vieira em Lisboa. Diário De Notícias. Retrieved October 21, 2020, from https://www.dn.pt/sociedade/extrema-direita-impede-manifestacao-contra-estatuado-padre-antonio-vieira-em-lisboa-8823551.html
7 - Rebelo de Sousa, M. in Borges, L. (2020, June 15). Marcelo: é “verdadeiramente imbecil” vandalização de estátua do padre António Vieira. Público
8 - Ventura, R. in Vieira, A., Ventura, R., & Miranda, J. C. (2014). Padre António Vieira: Escritos sobre os índios. Lisbon: Círculo de Leitores.
9 - Melo e Castro, E. M. (1977). Pode-se escrever com isto. Colóquio Artes
10 – Moura, M. Facebook, 12 of June 2020, https://www.facebook.com/mario.moura.503/posts/10223519192590631
11 – Martins, C. in “Pichagem na estátua do Padre António Vieira visou descredibilizar movimento anti-racista”. (2020, June 12). Retrieved October 21, 2020, from https://www.esquerda.net/artigo/pichagem-na-estatua-do-padre-antonio-vieira-visou-descredibilizar-movimento-anti-racista
12 - Moura, M. Facebook, 12 of June 2020, https://www.facebook.com/mario.moura.503/posts/10223516897533256
13 – Bismark, P. in Moura, M. Facebook, 12 of June 2020, https://www.facebook.com/mario.moura.503/posts/10223516897533256