Large-scale printing of reproductions on the eve of the fair in Dlugosz Palace.
We will exhibit original works and reproductions.
Reproductions are numbered and signed.
So far we have 20 prints on the original drawing paper. Yes, this is the same paper and even the same batch of paper on which the 110x165 mm art was drawn.
These large reproductions ( A4 ) are currently lost as a result of the full-scale invasion of moscow animals into Ukraine.
These are early works that took a lot of time to complete. But they were lost.
Printed to " show progress ".
It's a good thing that I had relatively good quality scans done at the time.
Based on those scans, you can make a restored version of the drawing on good art paper, not on regular A4 80
There is no answer,
Only the silence of the night
Presses on the shoulders.
Maybe close
This gallery of thoughts
Forever from everyone?
The paintings are silent,
When the world is in a hurry
To earn money.
The exhibition is empty,
Only cold windows
Catch the silhouette.
Who needs
This elegant relief
In times of anxiety?
The hand leads the contour,
Thoughts finally
Became light.
The world outside the window
Will wait a bit,
While the varnish dries.
Each stroke
Returns to me
The lost balance.
Let it be just a hobby,
But without these paints
The soul will dry up.
Here I leave
The fatigue of hard days,
Forgetting everything.
A cozy terrace,
An old pencil
And complete silence.
Not for the sake of money,
Not for the sake of praise
This thin line.
Doubts melt away,
When blue paint
Floods the background.
Do I have the right
To waste my time
On a child's game?
Hours fly,
While I draw
The shadow of a wing.
The network is silent,
The crowd hurries past
The shadows of the soul.
Hide in a drawer
Or bring out
My own anxiety?
An empty screen,
Not a single glance after
My painting.
To whom will
This long-suffering touch
Bring a drop of warmth?
A mute question
Hangs over the table,
Where the grass dries.
Share a dream,
Which no one will remember
After dawn.
Is it worth it to the world
Show pain,
Woven from threads?
Canvas in the corner,
Dusty colors
Ask: why?
I will draw,
Because this quiet island is
My salvation.
Paint flows
To the wrong corner,
Where I wanted.
Plans fall,
Like dried clay
A fresh sculpture.
Morning muse
A woven canvas of spring,
And the snow keeps falling.
I draw lines,
But the wind breaks
My clear outline.
I don't know the way,
But I release the bird
From the white pages.
A lost trace
In the digital sea,
Where the lights have gone out.
Is the work worth
Even one word
From a stranger?
Let it simply lie,
Nobody needs
A surge of feelings.
The silence of the wall,
Where
My strange collage could hang.
I doubt,
When I press the "publish" button again.
Sharing light
In the dark times of separation —
A vain hope?
The light of the window
Falls on the portrait,
Which is not expected.
The painting lives,
While the creator holds
The brush in his fingers.
Is there any sense
To bare the heart
Before an indifferent eye?
Time takes away
All our hopes for
Recognition and brilliance.
Expensive frames,
But inside them
A forgotten tear.
A bright brushstroke
Left alone
With a dark wall.
For whom is this trance,
If no one hears
The music of the string?
Art is silent,
Locked in a workshop,
Where dust sleeps.
Color screams,
But passersby look
Only at their feet.
An empty hall,
Only a lonely caretaker
Walks past the canvas.
The originals
Alongside the copies
Were to appear.
The author's signature
And the number on each sheet —
A sign of secrecy.
The noise of the printers —
Thin reproductions
Came to life in a row.
The palace
Waited for a great holiday,
Prepared the tables.