Studies on butterfly, noctuid, dragonfly, bumble bee and other insects found dead and their parts on paper with gouache, watercolour and colouring pen. Pigment on the wings that gets stuck on one’s fingers.
It is long way to me. It is a long way to yourself. You can go round and round on and on, all the way to the other side of the globe and think you have found something worthwhile since you had the money and time and will and effort and interest and guts to go and explore as far as possible.
I cannot close my eyes, I have to look every detail. Every already seen thing again and again. Every many times seen moved unmoved untouched left explained broken bulged split idea that I got excited about and I remember why. Staying still, staying put, staying here where I am for a long period of time, not moving. Staying, staying. Where is this trip going, where am I going? What is this, is it a trip? They call it a trip.
What comes out of not knowing that the child is yours? It is a child of your own, smell of divinity, smell of liberty, smell of you, smell of the unknown. What comes out of this tiniest thing that is insignificant to you? That is from you like tears and sweat, shit and piss, vomit and anger. Way away pathetic insignificant, fluency of religion, surface of face, façade of a tower, decency of staying out of the edges, staying away from what you do not understand, do not want to understand. Edges of wanting, edges of not wanting.