Reflections

Editor: Dominika Ożarowska

“The broken image of Man moves in minute by minute and cell by cell.... Poverty, hatred war, police-criminals, bureaucracy, insanity, all symptoms of The Human Virus.”

After waking up, we try to rebuild the world that faded under our eyelids. We collect scraps that we could put back together again. We recreate an endless puzzle of random details. New paintings are like snapshots from a bad dream.
I collect strange specimens and trinkets (a deformed image of an underground mirror, a sunray reflected in a lens, gold flashing on a sand grain), bouncing light that may take us to another place.

"(...) as though I were cutting sections, at different heights, in a jet of water, rainbow-flashing but seemingly without flow or motion– "

“The study of thinking machines teaches us more about the brain than we can learn by introspective methods. Western man is externalizing himself in the form of gadgets.”

They record a journey through an underground world of shredded pasts. Like in a Fun Boy Three song, “The lunatics have taken over the asylum”. Reality around us makes us crave a escape from the grid and limits of understanding, and towards prehistory. It’s like turning the lights on and off as well. In the dark, we cling to the wall, so we don’t bump our heads. Anything is possible. I turn on the switch and suddenly find myself inside a big room. I had been here before I closed my eyes. I turn it off and on again. Images connect to each other in the dark.

"(...) we hear endlessly, all around us, that unvarying sound which is no echo from without, but the resonance of a vibration from within. We try to discover in things, endeared to us o that account, the spiritual glamour which we ourselves have cast upon them; we are disillusioned, and learn that they are in themselves barren and devoid of the charm whic they owed, in our minds, to the association of certain ideas;"

Excerpts: William S. Burroughs, “Naked Lunch”; Marcel Proust, "Swann's Way" (translated by C. K. Scott Moncrieff)



A seed bloating with a thousand fibers sunken inside a pitchy, viscid fluid. It's also a trap, dead space that swallows light.

"(...) a little how you imagine, for example, a tear gland to be, with thin, ciliated edges, and within which, quivering, twitching, writhing, are some intensely white flashes, some of them extremely thin, like infinitely fine stripes, others much thicker, almost fat, like maggots."

Georges Perec, "A Man Asleep" (translated by Andrew Leak)



Mechanical mold merges into the glow of a biological coating. We might understand individual parts, but the whole makes no sense. We don't know what it's for - stuff of delirious dreams, a fascinating as it is useless. Bizarre stalks of the metal skeleton glimmer in the light.



A psychedelic landscape reminiscent of David Cronenberg's films. Swollen plasma spreads out in irregular circles. Electricity illuminating viscera of a dismembered amphibian seen through a microscope. Glistening muscles of a strange organism unable to act, to think, to dream.

“So, like tiktaalik-in-reverse, we crawl back into the safety of the primordial soup, to a place that’s far away yet equally as alien as the world we currently live in.”

Günseli Yalcinkaya, "Going prehistoric: are we entering the ‘dinocore’ era?", dazeddigital.com