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 darkening occurred faster than I had anticipated, and soon I found myself painting in the dark. However, I had managed to mix all the colors I observed in the sky and arranged them in a spectrum of gradations, aligned vertically next to one another, before dragging out the paint with a heavy spatula—perhaps the kind used by muralists. I pressed it forcefully, repeatedly—perhaps thirty times—until the colors fused seamlessly. The shifts in the sun's color 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. When Edit assisted me during the installation, we discussed various perspectives on projections. She began talking about reflections, and then the conversation moved on to mirror neurons as receivers of projections. At some point, a prism found its way into the process, though how remains unclear. Eventually, the image created itself, slipping beyond conscious control and ceasing to function as a straightforward 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.

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.

I have been through this a thousand times. The same subject repeats, though less frequently now. Sitting before the canvas—the only stable point in that moment. This has been experienced before, a thousand times over. It is the only thing that quiets the mind. And then, again, the birds appear. Later, Monogamous. The Heron. One evening, Edit observed, "It’s interesting how the birds have no heads. Considering what you often speak about. About the body." Until then, that thought had not occurred to me.

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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