Domain:Water

Domain:Water

Tell me about those Antigone’s eyes. 

Grieving, yet set to see her intention through. For a year, the isolation grew. Only those pages kept her on track. Almost as Francesca da Rimini, but with a lot of Cassandra’s style sentiment. Old those men of the olden days. Byron, Shelley, Stendhal, or Winckelmann. And Italy exists for her, only when she’s on the road. Foggy depictions, photo-archeology, Archeology of photography. Single-Use Camera, films pilling up, brought to life without determination to track time, embedded with painterly qualities. Lines and shapes hazy, and shattered by the past. I mean, don’t be such a Cassandra. It’s but a wave. Single magnificent wave. And all the romanticism gets sheltered, in the strictness of a gallery glass, and pure geometry of the frames. What cried imperfection, became absolute. Its is a storage, don’t give me that self-indulgent crap about the importance of the archive. These are simple pieces of a stage design, an edifice in ruins. A cloud in formation. Tears dried. Mind in flux preserved. A wave. A wave you can surf on. Possibly. Maybe. And you know what, it’s like wine, supposedly, it gets better with age. Tell me about those Antigone’s eyes … “This mood makes itself felt everywhere, politically, socially, and philosophically. We are living in what the Greeks called the καιρóς (Kairos) – the right time – for a “metamorphosis of the gods,” i.e. of the fundamental principles and symbols.’ C. G. Jung, The Undiscovered Self (1958)” / Jen Kratochvil

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