Lepopisana

A couple of years ago, when I was using P's studio, I made a painting with screaming yellow background. There was lettering on it in orange and red and a white illuminated letter with golden relief lacy ornaments. I usually lay my paintings on a table to varnish them in horizontal position, but there was no table or any other horizontal surface without clutter on it in the studio. I put the painting on the flor, covered with an ancient carpet which was most probably never vacuumed. I realised too late that I varnished dust on the painting and it looked really ugly on the screaming yellow surface. After a while I had a recycling moment and I remembered that painting. I should make something else out of it, so I decided to cut the relief golden illumination off. Easier said than done. I soon damaged the canvas so much, it couldn't be used the way I wanted it. Unless ... A couple of days later the spirit of recycling was still very much alive. I remembered some sketching pape

Sometimes I dream about the same thing again and again, but not as a recurring dream. It is more like the same world and same people. My dreams are like mixed up or missing episodes in a series. I know they belong to the same world, but their sequence doesn't make sense. The story usually happens at night or twilight in a city full of greenery and huge buildings made of stone. Last time it was set in a vast open space resembling an abandoned heliodrome or sports court set in terraces with dilapidated steps leading form one plane to another. These dreams should worry me but they don't. Sometimes they are grey and heavy and they border on the scary but I don't really feel it. There's a feeling of detachment, like watching something I am a part of but at the same time I'm not. However there is something I do feel, these dreams seem to be frighteningly real. Another thing that happens every now and then is a feeling of familiarity with things I know I never sa

... sombre, hostile, cold, severe, frigid, ashen, shadowy, emotional, tumultuous, terrifying ...  In my previous post I remembered my first real contact with the void. It happened in a large room with the walls painted stark white at La Biennale di Venezia in 2013. There were other people in the room but there was no one at the same time. I noticed the paintings, their overpowering presence and all I wanted was to be left alone with them, to really feel them. Is there silence in this vast watery expanse? Or is it filled with water roaring, soaring, clashing, foaming ... Dark grey blue against grey overcast sky pressing down. The electric air smells of salt. Its cold feels sharp against my cheeks, the salt stings my lips. I seem to sway with it I feel my fingers clutching non-existent iron railing of a ship I'm not standing on. My bare hands stick to the freezing metal. The wind throws water at me, inviting me in, into its bluish greyness, soaking my clothes, reaching my ski

Sometimes I think I stand at the edge of the void looking in, other times I think I am already inside. In wintertime I have this urge to paint monochromatic blue paintings. Mostly they represent water ... or I wish they represented water. The truth is I don't even think about what they should represent, as long as they are blue, the colour I can lose myself in. I have a friend who often teases me about my blue periods. But what he doesn't know is that my blue periods seem to last forever, here and there they are punctured by red or another colour, just for the sake of experimenting, to see what happens when I use another colour for the same subject matter.  What I think about lately is the void, deep blue void, something along the lines of Yves Klein when he said that blue at most represents the sea and sky, parts of nature being the most abstract. The sea ... so I am here again, on the edge of deep blue water, rolling towards infinity. I have never actually seen a paint

I'm of the opinion that a letter in itself is devoid of meaning, although with it's shape as well as the possibility to create a word that carries meaning, it brings countless associations to mind. In the In Your Eyes polyptych letters are intertwined so that they form a uniform subject matter which travels form one painting to the next. It reminds me of see foam. A visitor of the exhibition remarked that it reminded him of a ribbon in rhythmic gymnastics. The letters may have come from infinity, from paintings before the first one and it may continue after the eighth painting. Between these eight paintings there may be infinite number of paintings we at the moment cannot see. It reminds me of A Book of Sand by Jorge Luis Borges, it neither has the beginning nor the end. We may imagine the infinite, but then again we may not. It depends on us, our interests, questions we ask ourselves. Under the intertwined letters there are disciplined rows of text, or so it se