SLEEP

Sleep. An abstract on an unasked topic. Human. Too human. Superhuman.

Sleep. An innocent euphemism, meant to conspire fear of the inescapable. Or a call - a therapy, a habit of short-term renunciation of being already in life, softening the slide into nothingness. Talking through this lifetime nothingness.  For the record, during my short life so far has doubled. If I live to be, say, 80 years old. I'll have conventionally witnessed more deaths than in the entire written in the written history of mankind. Statistics, just statistics. I'm talking about death in a desacralized, refined. space. My reality does not involve the concept of a salvific otherworldly existence of the soul. There is no soul. But there is something more: our thoughts, our torments and our doubts about it. There is no necessity for physical laws, no reason why the universe can only be ordered in this way and that way, no reason why it couldn't be different. The "Lovely Bones" series, part of the "Sleep" project, is a contemporary twist on the vanitas genre, the admiration of decay as a self-sufficient creative act, the unraveling of the boundaries of any interpretation corrupted by Heidegger's being-to-death. Salon-like acceptance, which is in binary opposition to the works from the "Approaching" series, imbued with feelings of a potentially different outcome. And everything is surrounded by almost theatrical scenery-canvases: knotty tree trunks (from which, perhaps, new shoots will emerge, but this is not certain), "anthropomorphic" nails, in some places corroded by corrosion to the point of losing their silhouette - the world of sleeping beauty, sticky stagnation and romantic noir from the 19th century. This exhibition is a lamp vanitas to every home, a toothless attempt to remind the living that everything is temporary.