autoportret

I've been reading some Polish modernist literature which has led me to explore some artists from the late nineteenth, early twentieth century, I came across many self portraits that peaked my interest. Self portraits dominated this era, these artworks were self reflective, a study of an individual, as well as an artist and his technique; but most importantly these works were studies of the human psyche. Artists inhabited a world which was suddenly foreign to them. Due to the vast and sudden advancement of technology, society found themselves lost and facing a mass culture which they were unexpectedly a part of. Artists were expressing an almost painful awareness of their position, striving to isolate and secure their individualism, among feelings of solitude, alienation, internal turmoil and existential anguish. Modernism diffused the importance of an individual dramatically, they became lost among the masses. The Romantic individual that preceded the modernist, was also lost in the expanding society,but still had a lot more artistic freedom. During this time, Kraków was the center of Polish culture because it had a lot more freedom compared to Warsaw which was under Russian partition. Here are some Polish artists 'autoportrets' I encountered,

                                                         Balthus (1908-2001)

                                             Gustaw Gwozdecki (1880-1935)

                                                     Irena Weiss (1888-1981)

                                             Leon Wyczolkowski (1852-1936)

Wyczolkowski
(I have a personal fondness to this one)

                                               Leon Wyczolkowski late in life.

 

                                                 Jacek Malczewski (1854-1929)

                                         Olga Boznanska (1865-1940)

                                                Melancholik, Wojciech Weiss
                                                 (favourite)

                                               Wojciech Weiss (1875-1950)

for the memories that die peacefully in our sleep: photo/drawing hybrid,

 I attempted to address the theme of memory. While thinking about the approach to be taken in addressing this theme, I encountered a difficulty; almost every memory that I could draw on frustratingly, but unsurprisingly, belonged to my childhood. The space of these memories, the setting in which they appeared to had taken place, varied upon each investigation, a metamorphosis that carried on until there was no certainty whether the memory had actually ever taken place or not. This led me to think about the space of my current memories, and the problematic nature of its temporality. Why is it that memory loses its temporal function as I age, why is there no going back after childhood has passed, and more importantly, why do I disappear from my current space of memory? So I focused on this last question, and took photographs of the scenes that fascinated me around my neighborhood: the scenes I passed nearly every day, but never noticed them in the space of my daily life. In these images of signs, people, public hangouts, I became aware of my engagement with the surrounding space. An engagement that often becomes so ordinary that it dissolves one of its participants. It is, therefore, this familiar space that conceals my role in my own memories. A billboard for a cemetery promises me a space in the future, providing of course that I have the funds. This billboard commands me to rest assured until 'then'. Life is, therefore, reversed. However, as trying as it may be, I want myself as well as the viewer, to notice the possibility of another space, a void that cannot be occupied by signs and buildings. Perhaps in the space of this void, often unnoticed in the center of my life, I could be propelled to follow my own desire, something that I could recall in future memories.

"I like the feeling it gives me, i like the release it gives me, I can't trust anybody but myself, I know I am superfluous, in the most charming way, but i haven't seen myself in a while so I have to rely on my memory."

"What a beautiful infallible crutch you have provided, it allows you to forget about the nature of memory." 

"Our conversation was always limited, wasn't it? I followed how often you stared into your cup, and counted every second closer to suicide. The last grain of sand never fell, lucky for us."

"I counted the footsteps home, mine, yours and others. One by one. I don't know what will happen in the spring?"

"Perhaps nothing remains?"

"My passive sigh of relief is frozen in the February air, is it probable the mirror you frequent will crack with frustration relieving me for good? Do you know this devours you? You are not a man and barely a woman."

I pretend to smoke in an attempt to bide time, to decipher the iconography before me, and just as strongly, avoid.

"There is no ending, there is no answer for you to unfold."