Between the sky and home

As a child, I always saw the smallest objects as some beings who silently witnessed the unfolding of our entire life. I always thought of the house where I was born as waiting for my return, in silence, day after day, hour after hour, with a sharp attention to every movement of the light on its walls. That's why I used to greet it, as I also do today, convinced that my message gets exactly where it needs to go - in the essence of things. The idea of silent friends gathering the thread of my story seemed to give me constant access to that happy place we are all looking for in our imagination. The cupboards, the chairs, the plates, the mirrors, the cutlery, the shower, all are waiting for the one who will see their striving for perfection. The waiting seems to be bittersweet because it is lost by the notion of time, suspended between sometimes and never. The objects are witnesses but, at the same time, totally devoid of reaction. All our feelings of joy, pain, despair, hope, love and distance, are stored in the porcelain luster of a bathtub. Intimacy, in its most concentrated form, silently spreads over all the objects around us and leaves imprints like an oil slick on the sheen of a stove. It is said that the sense of poetry is an emotional, metaphorical and visionary one. Thus I can definitely say that painting is the most intriguing form of poetry I have ever tried. I'm looking for the one close to us, the one that's already around. I believe that emotion has no material hypocrisy; it is even possible for it to touch and awaken someone's past from behind a radiator's elements or from a cup sitting on a table between two souls. And so began the association with the clouds, which are apparently in total opposition, but when put together with everyday objects, they only prove that the two elements are standing as equals from an aesthetic and energetic point of view, a reflection of the vastness upon the mundane. Then there is the whole new space that is created between the sky and the comforting home - a space of infinite possibilities, of evolution. Quaint irony, right? The perspective of detachment from the superficial through common objects. These objects, discredited and ignored most of the time, become symbols and take on a mystical and ritual charge. The color mixes with the memory, the shape intertwines with the sensation, the visual becomes tactile and is involuntarily associated with sounds. A composition that is hard to resist without raising at least a question mark. Who’s making the rules? Who says what poetry means to the soul? And who knows where souls actually grow? Maybe right in the space between the sky and a bathtub.