Groping my way. I am in the darkness of the exhibition; to sharpen my imagination, I close my eyes and summon the vision of paintings hanging on the walls. There are spatial moments in the display that shape its character, that bring the narrative together as a whole. The so‑called little treats. And there it appears before me, from the left, in its entirety: Abys by Tomáš Predka, in the depth Ghost by Koroš, next to it Membrane by Příkaský, The Armor by Samuel and Tender Collapse by Klaudia Kiełbasa. To see this constellation you have to crouch down or sit on the floor. A chromatic passage from the darkness of the ocean and the night, as if from the depths of the Universe, through the subtlety and delicacy of greys and pinks seeping into green – a sensual poetry, a journey of Spirit towards the body. An apparently linear continuity. Radim said that “In the end, Ghost is not about ghosts or souls. It is about a human being – weight‑less, drifting, not demanding to be understood – who simply sways gently in the unknown.” As if taken straight out of Klaudia’s painting.
Darkness is silence.
I take a deep breath of drying paint on the walls, freshly repainted white yet again. And I look at Log, Reborn, entangled in Tomáš Predka’s Amulet series. They flicker in turn, weaving their own rhythm – at times through sheer ease, at times through the palette of colour. On my left they are, on my right their mirror image. And yet the mood shifts; separate and together, the light moves differently.
The girl in Patryk Staruch’s painting opens her arms. She is allergic to the contemporary Spirit. In the fan of her gaze, the climate of the city intensifies the situation. Cold, rain and night. Out of the fog emerge the creations of Konrad Krzyżanowski. Clicked faces, and in the background Samuel is burning. Bad Seed.
I sink into compositions of light violets. Wildness, technique, colour underlining freedom. Solstice by Kinga Nowak, the Amulet series by Tomáš Predka and Skin by Pavel Příkaský. Control tipping into frenzy. Solstice, abstraction, structure. It is enough to turn 45 degrees to see Kinga in a new transformation, a metaphor of the yellow sphere, which in Samuel’s work becomes a mere touch of yellow, swelling into the cosmic light of Zuzanna. Differences and similarities bleed into one another across the room: not a single axis, but a mesh between points of view that defines these worlds.
In the centre I light the lamp of recognition: Kukkilintu (Solstice Bird) by Jósefina Alanko. A ritual object. I do not need to imagine anything; it is enough to be part of the scene.
Ten artistic bodies. Ten Souls. And something in between.
NO TITLE does not want to be anything more. A story about painting. Perhaps a little about being human. Perhaps a fantasy.
Maria Ciborowska
English 
Polish