Thoughts about an exhibition which could be called 'Sunday morning, a dot in a human landscape'.
What is a Sunday morning?
Just an anonymous Sunday morning amongst a pile of potential Sunday mornings.
One more, one less in the accumulation of this particular moment so called Sunday morning that everyone experiences many times.
But is there such a thing as The Sunday morning ?
Nothing is motionless. Humans are by essence between things. Attempting to portrait something is an attempt to capture a constant movement.
Time is passing over the landscape making it always a new one, an inexhaustible subject of projection.
Is there such a thing as the essence of the things?
Creating is somewhere fixing in the time. The unique shape of the creation engages an affirmation of the it is, it's something, it's now, it will be.
And somehow work about the paradoxes of fixing the moving, making appear the unstarted, the unfinished because the nondescript notion of what is what.
A following of the holly Saturday night, the morning before the cursed Monday, an idea of a church somewhere in the past, a family meal on a rainy day, a severe hangover, a particular loneliness on a half cold bed, a song of the velvet underground, a Sunday morning.