WHY

 

Art, for me, is not expression—it is transformation.An intimate, often inarticulate experience passes through the body and emerges as form. What remains is not a story, but a presence.

I paint because images arrive before language. Because they are faster than thought, and more honest than memory. I work where meaning has not yet settled.

I am, still, a serious child in paint.And I am a witness to change.I paint ideas that insist on becoming visible.

 

1. The First Language

At the most decisive moments of life, there are no words. There are images.

The image is the first language: immediate, unmediated, irreducible. It precedes narrative and resists translation.

I do not treat painting as storytelling. It is not literature. It is a direct, physical mode of knowing—a language of the body, operating prior to explanation.

At the same time, no work escapes its moment. Each painting carries the pressure of the present—structurally and emotionally.

For over three decades, this has been my way of thinking. I work in series, each structured around an idea that does not resolve, an idea that returns, that insists.

 

2. On Connection and Fracture

We are living through an era of simultaneous conflicts—political, social, psychological. The question of how we relate to one another has become urgent again.

Marshall Rosenberg proposed the possibility of communication without violence. Spiritual traditions, long before that, described a condition of deep interdependence.

And yet, we continue to fail at contact.

Between 2024 and 2026, my work is shaped by this tension. Painting becomes a site where connection and rupture are held together—where the impossibility of understanding is not resolved, but made visible.

 

3. Bodies Under Pressure

My earlier work emerged from within a system that excluded the female voice (Marina Welcome). That position—of being seen but not heard—remains foundational.

At the same time, I now look at the structures that also constrain men—the burden of expectation, performance, control (Superman).

Previous series confronted gender conflict directly (She Turns Me On Intellectually, I Am Not Sorry). More recent works shift toward permission: women occupying space without apology (Antidote), men reclaiming emotional articulation (Body Language).

In parallel, I have examined larger cultural displacements—the friction between Western productivity and Eastern presence (The World Changes from Doing Nothing).

There was a period of refusal—sharp, ironic, absolute (No Because I Said So).Now I am no longer interested in resistance as posture. I am interested in construction—forms that hold, rather than oppose.

 

4. Form as State

I come from the visual memory of the Polish People's Republic—a field of greyness not only political, but psychological: muted, provisional, constrained.

My work moves against that condition.

Color, in my paintings, is not descriptive—it is corrective. It is luminous, saturated, insistent. Increasingly, it draws from water: the sea, the ocean. Water, for me, is a site of recalibration—a return to a primary state, before distortion.

I work toward reduction. Simplicity, but not emptiness.

A recurring element is the interval—the space between form and ground. It is not absence. It is autonomy. It allows the image to breathe, to remain unresolved, to exist on its own terms.

This logic appeared early, in monochrome canvases and minimal spatial tensions. I later moved away from its literal form to avoid mannerism, but its structure remains present—from early nudes to God Dog and beyond.

My palette is often limited. Within that restraint, I push texture, gesture, and layering to their threshold.

Painting, for me, is both kinetic and meditative.

Drawing—charcoal, pastel—operates differently. It is closer, more immediate. A record of attention rather than construction.

The figures I paint are deliberately unassigned. No fixed age, gender, or race. I am not depicting identity. I am working with the human condition—relational, unstable, shared.

 

5. Position

I locate my work in proximity to German Expressionism, and in dialogue with Joan Mitchell, Francis Bacon, Martin Kippenberger, and Helen Frankenthaler—artists for whom painting is both material and existential.

My practice moves between large-scale acrylic painting, charcoal drawing, and pastel—each medium a distinct cognitive and emotional register.

I present new work annually, in contexts that allow for direct encounter—gallery, museum, or otherwise.

Timing matters.

I show work while it is still unresolved—while we are still inside the condition it responds to. When the conversation is not yet historicized, not yet neutralized.

That is where painting remains necessary.