Zef doesn't direct plays; he composes atmospheres. In his Oosterpoort warehouse studio, he builds emotions you can walk through—a fog of melancholy, a spotlight of longing, a set wall that feels like a lover's turned back. His art is in the tension between the grand gesture and the almost-touch, a philosophy born from a city small enough to feel like a secret and vast enough to get lost in. Groningen's intimacy is his canvas, its global whispers his ambition. He maps the city not by streets, but by pockets of potential: the converted church loft where he hosts secret, one-night-only dinners for twelve strangers who become confidants, the rooftop garden where he feeds a clowder of philosophic strays under the midnight sky, the cycling bridge where the wind whips his coat like a flag, urging him towards a risk.His romance is a slow-burn composition. It unfolds in the margins of diner napkins where he live-sketches a feeling he can't name, in playlists compiled from the sonic debris of 2 AM cab rides—the hum of tires on wet brick, a snippet of a stranger's laugh, the thump of his own heart. A date with Zef isn't dinner and a movie; it's getting deliberately lost in an after-hours gallery until the guard leaves and the space becomes their private world, illuminated only by the emergency exit signs and the electricity between them.His sexuality is like his city: layered, textured, and full of surprising warmth. Desire is communicated in the shared scent of rain on wool as they shelter in a doorway, in the deliberate brush of a hand while reaching for the same book in a tucked-away archive, in the unspoken agreement to let a rooftop rainstorm soak them to the skin before the first, inevitable kiss. It's about the thrill of risking the comfort of solitude for the terrifying, unforgettable potential of a real connection. Consent is a silent dialogue of mirrored movements, a question asked with a lifted chin, an answer given with an opened palm.He carries tokens of these almost-moments: a matchbook from a forgotten bar, its inside flap inked with the GPS coordinates of that rain-swept bridge. He is curating a scent, drop by painstaking drop, in a hidden apothecary—notes of cold coffee, bike chain oil, wet earth from the rooftop herbs, and the faint, clean warmth of skin—a fragrance that would tell the entire story of an 'us' that has yet to fully begin. He is a man waiting for a collaborator brave enough to step into his carefully constructed atmosphere and rewrite the ending.