2014/2015 Personal Mythology / Work in progress...

“He would invent his own history, making use of esoteric fragments from what he had read. Instead of being ruled by history, he would create it; instead of relying upon the past, he would re-invent it and venture into a timeless world of his own making”
Jorge Luis Borges

2008/2009 Mirror images

"You can just see a little peep of the passage in Looking- glass House, if you leave the door of our passage as far as you can see, only you know it may be quite different on beyond."
"Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There" (1871)
Lewis Carroll

In physics, reflection occurs when a light ray strikes a surface and is reflected in another direction. If the surface is smooth it is called a mirror image or mirror reflection. The shadows of a mirror reflected light are clear, contrasted and strongly expressed.

We think of the mirror image as reflection of reality. It proves that we exist. It awakens the narcissistic in us and makes us examine our reflection sometime for hours. Just like in a story it whispers to us about how well we look.

What happens when the mirror is broken? Do broken mirrors scatter images and how would reality look if we put the mirror' s peaces back together?

What if the mirror doesn't reflect precisely and takes us inside a labyrinth of awry mirrors and unendingly multiplying reflections?

I ask myself, how the reflected version of our world would look and are there really reflected images at all. Every thing would be very different than just a twisted upside-down rule... Reality, just a quiet, blurred background, on which stand out reflected and multiplied images, blurred shadows couth in the trap of the mirror. My instinctive fear is awakened, the fear that my image can be captured, multiplied, broken and deformed. The mirror will lay it in space and repeat it infinitely fusing it with older images, remembered from other people who have looked upon the mirror. It will twist the projections until the reflected reality turns into a memory unidentifiable and fragmented. The mirror remembers and stacks up layer after layer transparent surfaces, layers of transparent images. The story about such as a mirror reality would be considered literature nonsense.

I'm looking at the white sheet of paper and here I go... I'm placing layer upon layer of memories - reflections of the past. I'm placing them in the endlessness: the sheet of paper is my mirror. I find the lines of my face in the chaos of transparent images... I find my self.

The fragments of randomly piled up past events turn in to projections of the future. But in what the White queen said, there is a huge advantage - a human's memories work in two directions.

I'm taking a new sheet...

2009 Short stories

2004 The House

An attempt for memories and dreams ceaselessly returning to be painted

HOUSE - new life... HOUSE burning out, falling down - lost, misfortune, death... HOUSE old - quarrel, drifting apart... HOUSE that you are cleaning up - expect joy... HOUSE if it’s a nice house of yours - health and long life... HOUSE well established - wealth and honour... HOUSE if you are building a new one - success... HOUSE if you can see it in a dream as a palace - gifts... HOUSE if you repair it - grief...???

WHICH HOUSE? WHY THE HOUSE?

The memento of the past, which is coming back... All of a sudden... The house of your memories: the endless corridors, the ghosts in the cellar, in the attic...The creaking wooden floor and the noises in the night... The monsters in the cupboard and under the beds, belongings and household goods coming back to life...The talking cats, the toys...The gigantic table and the chairs, elders, secrets, peeping through the key holes...Digging into boxes and dusty chests of drawers, coming up with treasures, coming up with worthless at a glimpse household goods forsaken in times long ago, the faded photographs.The house, which looks huge, full of unexplored rooms, locked doors, stairs leading to the darkness. The house full of the steps of running children and so many faces of unmemorable visitors... Made up games, far more truthful than the reality itself... Happening...

Everything is faded, vague as if gazed at through a blurred glass... Different any time when it is to be depicted... Difficult to be caught in the snare of the picture... Receding into the far distance...

All the houses dwelled in after that.... Rooms, where the belongings rescued in the course of time are being arranged... Where the forgetful disembodied silhouettes are moving to settle,,, The corners where the old semi-dusted off spooky figures are hiding in death silence...

2005/2007 Silhouettes, erosion

Paper silhouettes obtrusively force our thoughts to their concentric circles. These “easy” targets in our consciousness often mislead us to believe that our hand will strike faultlessly and hit the mark from the first attempt - precisely and confidently. Fixed targets with dotted line at the edges - we chase them in our mind and remove them from our way. Quickly and efficiently our consciousness hits them, pierces, tears to pieces and shouts victorious cries. We don't know what's behind dark silhouettes, and they arouse fear in us, but never strike us with panic, since the target is marked. Targets moving and going away, behind them - scared people and animals are hiding. These are the featureless images waiting maliciously for us, certain of their immortality, having exposed themselves with their outlined circles, where our bullets are to strike.

And if the silhouette happens to fall, it acquires the transparency of the shadow and the dancing little figures rush upon it. The paper devours it and all of them go through its memories, until its stitches are torn to pieces. All the same, holding fest on the wings of angels, the little figures with white outlines, which have stepped on the animal frames will manage to ascent to the surface and will be satisfied.

But the angels are walking in a calm procession, while the drawn bodies of inventions are running after them in a chaotic and hysteric haste. And when the huge lilac shadows fade away, the paper will be taken down again and the imagination will pour into its new images. Faces, figures, landscapes will appear. Passions and emotions of scaring openness will be layered, reaching the point of exhaustion, which has drawn with it the disintegration of matter.