The text below is alike a dialogue.
A stream of consciousness, perhaps. 

It is intertwined with images – my own, and public license images of paintings known in the europocentric History of Arts.

How did that tale end?

I do not know. The other one started with the introduction to Ovid.

Metamorphosis:
Before there was anything, first there was chaos.
A huge, shapeless, unbounded.

The Ovid. As he was writting – he had to think about something.
Imagine things.
And generations of readers imagined.

How do I see chaos?
I am not sure. I do not know. Let's sketch.
And so he drew.

Let's leave that Ovid. Further on, there was Dante. It is a little bit of shortcut, indeed.
Obviously there were many things on the way.
And later too. Curt Vonnegut, for example.

But so, Dante goes down to Hell.
Led by a poet, Virgilio.

Unknown. Invisible. Unseen – not seen.
People say he is a painter.
Hold on, I didn't get a good look yet.
Oh, I'd like to fix that.

Manet paints a bar.
Hold on, let's get back to Ovid.

Look.

Everything circulates, it is terrible noise,
the smell of dirt and perfumes mixes here with spilled alcohol.
The sound of broken glass in nothing new in here.

No, this is not this type of a bar. Not that type.

Swirls. Big and small. Everything circulates, exchanges.
It is changing, but not like this. In a different way.
You cannot see that on the painting.

I do not know, maybe it is too static. Boring
Maybe chaos is a lack. Lack of discipline?
Maybe lack of tradition, understanding.
And so, I do couple of sketches.

I would like to see that painting.
Painted by Gustav Klimt.

Forest. It is calm. The colors are burnig. They vibrate.
Dance, with the every touch of the brush, every mark it leaves.

There is something burning in that calmness.
Something internally contradictory.
I think it is that the fire is calm.

Dante goes through the forest, with his guide.
Oh was that forest also, contradictory? Unlike? Internally broken?

Some more of that champagne, por favor.
It gently moves in the grip of a man.
The experience of creating motion animations with vectors makes me think of that movement:
The glass: Movement from the middle, slightly limited in the not-that-harsh grip of the hand. No shiver, just gentle, smooth motion. The smaller fingers hold on tighter. The index is loose, alike eating with sticks. The liquid in the glass: centerifugal movement. Aimed to the outside – limited by the shape of the glass. The mathematics obviously is great in describing a beauty of that inner ∼ .

Experiences are collected too.

Yes, yes. Champagne.
He only noded, that's how it usually looked like.

I got really sweaty, even without the crazy dances of the saloon.

Series III. Linocuts. I run away from abstract art.
I described the previous series as something like rorschach.
But it was only turns, lines and contradictions.

Linocut 04 Series 03. 
WOŚP 34.
You can auction that for charity. See that.

Yes, the associations.

They all printed perfectly.
Exhibition, the first one, yeah, it took place in the very natural environment. 
Surrounded by trees.
It is by the big get-away-out-of-town street.
That's Warsaw at it's best. Full of contradictions.

The Royal Route, man! Aleje Ujazdowskie.
And so close to it, a finnish cabin. Wooden – uninsulated. With a chimney.
They say it was a post-war gift. A support to rebuild the Capital.

Imagine, people meet there – and without any force upon them, they create cultural events.

Well, not like Dante perhaps, but about trees.
I read about the Divine Comedy couple of years later.
During classes about Modern art, but since Middle Ages.

You know, and so, I think, it fits.
Fits perfectly, you can reinterpret. 
The other ones saw, the later ones will see it differently.

I love the park nearby Aleje Ujazdowskie.
I get lost there, I cry inside gazing upon others – silent, calm, unmoved or untouched.
Ordinarily beautiful. Beautifully inhuman.

Sometimes I only slip through. I think Monet is there!
A small bridge, bended and tensed. Alike Discobolus of Myron.

But not because of the outer or inner pressures.
The not-inner-vector.
This is how they invented it. Designed.

Lino plate is grey. From the bottom, the material is protected, strengthen by a grid of linen cords.
There are others too – but I like these.

No, there is always something to find. Or something might slip away. Slip out.
I write this in Polish and English, simultaneously. Let me check something, how to write it.

So I do not know the word for how the snail moves. In english.

There surely is a word for that.
I google “a word explaining the walk of snail”. “Glide”.
Surprising. To slip in. I note that down, thinking about some kind of Evil, which enters the world.
There is a beautiful jazz theme.

Nie O'krzesany – Zbigniew Namysłowski. 

Ah! About words, phrases and so on. Lazy language things. Smart thinking speaking. Habits, style.
I really love the term Apage Satanus, as mentioned in the biography of Zofia Stryjeńska by Angelika Kuźniak.

But writing this, I also think about the past I know, and the possible future.

Past. It is late, a person that is important to me, a woman, sleeps in the other room now.

I work till early morning. It was early spring mornings, perhaps.
The hunters of Peter Breugel, the snow is gone and so their footprints are only left visible with the darker shades of grey on the increadible painting.

Art might be a crime scene? A clue?

Years later I still have the same dream. A thought.

Pyramids, why?

Perhaps they saw a vulcano eruption, some kind of fatamorganas. I do not know.

Thinking about the shape – vulcano makes sense.
An event, told by ancestors about the great moutain, that kills?

Well you can tell stories.
Black Desert, perhaps? Just a certain trick, a camuflage to cheat the navigators of enemy?.
If you see the moutains, turn left. And then they see some mountains again.

And again, ancient cultures navigated with songs like that – till the black moutain and turn left until you see the tree like this and that and then go straight ahead.

The vulcano makes sense – when you think about the shape.
In my head a painting appears. Narcissus by Caravaggio. A figure, mithological, looking at himself, by the edge of the water.
He looks from top.

Forgive me loosing the Dante i Ovid thing.

Icarus.
Landing.

I talk to my Dad.
Maybe the Icarus and Dedalus were greek fisherman.
The miths were obviously educational.

“Son – the best fishing is in the middle of the depths.”

“The deeper – the easier it is too lose the net.”
“On the top, nothing tasty.”

Or something...

The bellies eat and so there must be art.
There can be art.

I recognise that there are different types of needs.

Context is crucial – so is culture.
Education.

The tale of Egyptian ancestors.
The angry moutain.

Now, let's get back to Earth for a second.
Now and here.

The trash piramids of plastic, is this our story?

Tombs of XXI century?

I would prefer a vulcano. It is more spectacular.

(what can you do, iz a f*cking vulcano!)

I write sometimes, texts alike the one above.
Hopefully it was fun.

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