Motion

There is no mind-doing that is separate from body-doing. Physicality is an undetachable part of my thinking, my artistic process. The process captures my involvement completely my mind and my body. There is nothing that belongs to either art or thinking alone.

Incompleteness

In the course of an artistic process thoughts suggest themselves and develop as though they were inscribed into the skin of an artwork that is in the midst of becoming. Hence artistic process and thinking seems like a series of actions that an artist has to take in order to solve this inscription, in order to transmit it, to make this some thing, the inscribed, luminous. A mute conversation between an artist and an artwork. The finished work remains then what was left to be said, uttered, thought, done, when everything that can be has been. When the artwork is completed, it ties the artist’s hands for all time, it puts a stop to shared arrival but, instead, is itself an arrival. What the artist had then accomplished is a work but incompleteness achieved by incompleteness. It is the uttermost completion of the thought of incompleteness.

Absence

The power of an artwork is linked to the absence of the artist and to the thought and feelings behind the actual work. This absence is habitually covered by language produced by art theorists, aestheticians or laymen, or artists themselves. But, in language there it is nothing that communicates the actual work. The absence is complied with the most fitting words; however, the distance between the absence and the ideas, thoughts and feelings that the words try to express is something I would like to call traumatic. One’s disability to grasp and interpret them and then share them with others by language proves to be invalid. Language, working on its own level, lacks the capacity to make the invisible be seen as invisible, and not visible.

Irony

There must be an internal historicity within all the aspects of life. Irony keeps this historicity and the different paths within a roper dimension. Irony, something minute, found only in marginalia, in outskirts of all thinking. However, always within one's own mind. Irony, the play of shadows, the play of banality of life. It makes visible the distance between works, people, groups, classes, countries, climates, and genders, between thoughts of today and yesterday, between appearing and appearance.