As I work on my collages, my thoughts return to my childhood.
There are white and square piece of paper on the table, the charcoal is in my hand.
But I cannot recall the delicious odors and sounds wafting from the kitchen, my mother’s domain.
Like all these things my mother is gone, too.
I am drawing diligently, paying attention to details.
In the next moment the charcoal in my hand is substitute by scissors.
I cruelly mangle freshly created, turning sharply defined lines into lace.
Again a snowy piece of paper is on the table. The glue is replacing the scissors.
Arbitrary and intuitively I join isolated fragments (loose parts) of slashed drawing into something new.
This action is similar to the action of our memory – from fragments we are trying to reconstruct the past....
There are white and square piece of paper on the table, the charcoal is in my hand.
But I cannot recall the delicious odors and sounds wafting from the kitchen, my mother’s domain.
Like all these things my mother is gone, too.
I am drawing diligently, paying attention to details.
In the next moment the charcoal in my hand is substitute by scissors.
I cruelly mangle freshly created, turning sharply defined lines into lace.
Again a snowy piece of paper is on the table. The glue is replacing the scissors.
Arbitrary and intuitively I join isolated fragments (loose parts) of slashed drawing into something new.
This action is similar to the action of our memory – from fragments we are trying to reconstruct the past....
