Tokyo Painting

Frantic and mysterious areas of the city of Moko. Its beautiful lakes becoming one and then splitting suddenly, with their bottoms reaching the very ends of the universe. And the roads there, some - just streams of fire and rubber, motion apprehended in a single frame; other – organic shapes flying like crazy, thousands of suns, unidentified celestial objects in the hyperspace. Remains of civilizations lost in time, adorned with lightning discharges, sunk in Utopia! And the air filling the space at the intersections of the micro- and macroworlds, emitting light in the most unseen colours! And all this because light is a medium that space is made and unmade by. Nothing is rooted in the void, take it for a fact. The world we know, one we are used to locate on the edge of the universe in our wildest fantasies, is always contextualized. That edge is hard to discern, which explains why I often experience difficulties trying to differentiate between the things I see. Sitting down by the banks of the Vistula river I come to think that sometimes watching is all I've got. I’m staring at the ever-changing slimy water surface, and that’s all I need now. The colours of ships passing by, a balloon high above in the air, the skies. It’s all right here. None of it is present in my studio, but it can be recreated there. Sometimes it might seem that recreating that space on a piece of canvas gives you the exact same impression you have while sitting by the river bank. The art of painting, however, is not just about confronting visual puzzles. Responsiveness is all that matters. As Cezanne once wrote to young Bernard, disposition is crucial for painters. This is why a painting can be compared to a collection of memories belonging to its author looking at it, a truly striking collection at that. Even if such a painting was created as a contradiction to the feelings the author was experiencing toward himself during the process of creation. And this is why painting is such an extraordinary medium. It transfers us to a different time filled with different feelings and thoughts. Just enter a great empty hall with ancient portraits on the walls and try to feel the time unknown, remote and sealed off. Mere pieces of wood and canvas are the only tools there that would allow you to grasp it for a short while. For the truly deep meaning is always at hand. It is inextricably woven into what we crave the most. It can be found in any given matter. It can be made of our memories too. But the ridiculously low number of images we can recall throughout our lives. And out of those, how many we are able to remain aware of. All this accounts for those incessant attempts I make to recreate the space I saw in the past. Great quantities and small distances merge into one. The mistakes I make while in frantic action seem to do the job for me, as if by accident. I can feel the greatest artistry is round the corner, it is coming now, although unintentionally. It is there, in all those places it cannot be seen; and yet it has already emerged and would never cease to amaze me.