Image transfer and egg tempera on board, 14×16 cm, 2013
Prisoners, contemplators, space travellers. An artistic personality awoke one morning, sat on the edge of the bed and realised the metaphysical cycle of his life has come to an end. It was five past two or two past five, the clock was marking the hour with an empty stomach. This stroke of good luck, he thought, is a riddle whose solution will only be solved by intuition. Too much happiness is not good for your mind, he mused with trepidation. Outside his window a constellation of voices, elbowing one another, embraced the sudden return of memory: J’accuse, tu accuseras, il/elle accusait, nous accuserions, vous accusâtes, ils accusassent.
And they spoke no more. The romanticism of deconstruction. Tempestuous violation of rules and regulations. A forgotten turban reposing next to a baptismal font. This is grammar, not philosophy.
Text by Kiril Bozhinov, 2013