“I was in the age of moulting. One cracks open one’s faded, fibrous, armour-like skin and crawls out of oneself.

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I thought this was me. It turned out to be just another mask, like all those before it.

The new skin is once again sensitive and vulnerable. (…) The soul is the child of the fire of ten thousand skins. Ten thousand skins must be shed before it can reach itself.”​

Béla Hamvas: Fasting, Retreat, Silence

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Images do not preserve stories.

Stories preserve images.

 

Diary-like fragments reassembled from pieces of my own paintings and self-portraits.

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The titles, too, are mostly found objects. Sometimes clichéd lines from films, poems and songs that linger, that get into your head. Then, suddenly, something entirely your own and real attaches itself to them.