Art is routed with forgery. Paintings don't possess a tenth of the life of a drop of dew or a peach kernel. I don’t know if I will ever get close to my ambition to overcome this boredom, this repulsion from painting. If I will ever be able to create a single artwork with life in it – this might save my whole world view. If a set of brush strokes will ever be one millimeter higher then aesthetic catharsis, sterile image or a linear narrative, then I will know that I can overcome this horror and that I didn't spend my life in the most selfish profession.
What I do is to seek for metaphysical connection while in the base of the work it’s always the need to paint, to survive. Having no passion for narratives or metaphors, I find interest only in improving that ancient dialect. A spontaneous reaction, a deconstruction of culture and nature into a matter-based pragmatics paradox, A statement colliding chaos and order, A shrine for nowness. It starts with a search for some connecting quality – in form, color and rhythm. Pure observation of the sensation in an exact moment creates an entropic drawing. Despite the fact that this act is destined to fail, I keep doing it again and again until the action itself becomes a ritual folding in it elements of magia. Painting as a counter action, a nonsense vision or a wild prayer contains a revolutionary spark in it. I choose to focus on the nature of things as a manifest of the big universe and the soul of men.
In fact, one time after another, when I throw myself onto the paper or canvas – a dream-like state engulfs me and makes me forget everything I have ever learned. I get sucked in without a fragment of memory, no thought about mass and energy, attraction and rejection, movement color and rhythm. Without wondering about options, no nature, no culture, no faith or history, it is all gone. Dead silence. It is only afterwards that I wake up in front of an object describing a hopeless struggle.