daylight

When Kiev was painted, it began with an image found online—an image of a bombed façade in Ukraine. When the depiction proved unsatisfactory, the painting was drowned in solvent, the surface covered with newspaper. Upon pulling the paper away, flames emerged across the image. The effect was almost eerie.

The sky exists within the entire sky. I was in Spain, sitting on a balcony, intending to paint the sunset. The light faded faster than I had anticipated, and soon I found myself painting in near darkness. However, I had managed to mix the hues of the sunset in broad strokes. I pressed the paint forcefully with a heavy spatula—perhaps the kind used by muralists—repeating the motion nearly forty times until the colors merged into one another. I find the shifts in color fascinating, as the variations in the sun’s rays reveal something about the distance to the sun.

Relational drama arose during the installation. I wanted to incorporate the phenomenon of projections from a psychological perspective, particularly in relation to certain views I held about our recent past. Yet, I did not wish for the work to be interpreted as a mere illustration. As Edit assisted me during the installation, we discussed various perspectives on projections. She brought up reflections, which led our conversation to mirror neurons, considering them as a receiver of the projection. I don't recall how the prism came into play, but I lost control of the thought just as the image took shape on its own—it no longer felt like an illustration.

The two small birds, affixed with magnets to the painting Prosper, were originally three separate works that came together. One of the birds carries a fire blanket that was later thrown into the fire. Observers have commented on the recurring bird motif, though no such theme was ever intended. The silhouettes have persisted for a long time, always perceived as a painterly framework rather than as representations of birds. It has always been more about the history of painting itself.

The same subject resurfaces, though less frequently these days. I sit down, staring at the canvas—an anchor of sorts to the real world. "I’ve been through this a thousand times before," I think. It calms me. And then, once again, the birds appear. Later—swans. The heron. One evening, Edit remarked that it was interesting how the birds lacked heads. "Considering what you often talk about. About the body." I hadn’t even reflected on it myself.

At the center of the room stands a large black frame, leaning against the worktable. Nearby, a totem—a sculpture that has served a practical function—stands positioned above an altar where I commune with higher powers. It contains objects collected over time, each imbued with sentimental value: a fragment of the last cup from a set inherited from a beloved grandmother, a small Ethiopian opal, a piece of a pipe smoked in my youth, a keyring from India engraved with the word Wicked, a black square—a plexiglass sample from Copenhagen reminiscent of Malevich, cast teeth, and, at its base, a type of meteorite whose name remains unknown. All of these elements are woven together, suspended from a microphone stand with a microphone connected to wireless speakers that generate feedback and delay.

(...)

A text had been written, intended for the exhibition, but it never materialized. It explored the idea of sitting down with an urge to reason, only to realize that this is not the place for it. The work is expected to speak first.

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