The world around me is constantly moving and brings surprises. The dark spots on the birch tree are its closed eyes. The growing seed is alive and its spring is its endless leg, and maybe in another world it's not green as we see it, but purple.
The spot of the paint is epanding on the paper. I have already seen its shape before on the wall in the room where I have spent several days and I have already talked to it and made sure it's alive, it's colorful, it's endless.
Our society has a lot of frames, rules, algorythms. I am trying to avoid it in my graphic works. It's spontaneous, free and impulsive. Any kind of the spot while it's spreading on the paper brings the cascade of the images and previous expereinces in my memory and in subconscious. I don't control the moment of the beginning of my initial artistic interest. We are in close contact: respectful, quiet, cautious. It looks at me, the silent curiosity takes all the masks off from my face. I am a child again, without claims, without concerns.
I see the face from the past in it, icon in the tample, growing seed. Our dialogue is like a slow dance. Nothing is frozen, everything is changing and developing, growing, spreading, disappearing. Any form, spot or line, is endless, they always move as the sound in the space.
What if I dare to speak?
Won't it destroy our unshakable bond?
What if I wisper to it, how will it change?
Will it spead steadily and melt on the paper?
What if I start to shout? Will the sharp lines and branches of protection echo me?
Maybe the slight ripple and outbreakes of light on the walls can accompony our dialogue.